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Columbia  JBmtev&ity 
intljeCttpofJtogork 


LIBRARY 


GIVEN  BY 

Mary  Angela  Bennett 


AUSTIN    PHELPS 


(UtM*.  <P£jt*. 


Austin   Phelps 


a  riDemoir 


BY 


ELIZABETH   STUART  PHELPS 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS 

1891 


^38.3 
PS/3 


COPYRIGHT,   1891,   BY 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS. 


5k 

Cfs. 
It 


"  Now  I  begin  to  live  " 

The  Last  Telegram 


PREFATORY   NOTE. 

It  is  sometimes  complained  of  a  biography  that  it 
follows  too  closely  the  ancient  maxim  :  —  De  mortuis 
nil  nisi  bonum.  On  the  whole,  we  may  find  this 
rather  a  noble  specimen  of  human  philosophy,  and 
one  which  we  need  never  be  ashamed  to  respect. 

The  writer  of  this  memorial  has  not  thought  it 
necessary  to  call  attention  to  defects  in  the  character 
which  she  has  sought  to  portray.  Whatever  such 
existed,  it  has  not  seemed  to  her  the  duty  of  a 
daughter  to  seek  for  them ;  nor  is  it  in  the  power  of 
his  daughter  to  recall  them. 

E.  S.  P.  W. 

Gloucester,  August,  1891. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.     The  Parents;   and  the  Child 1 

II.     Autobiographic.  —  Boyhood 13 

III.  Autobiographic.  —  Early  Manhood    ....  27 

IV.  Marriage;   and  the  Boston  Parish    ....  46 
V.    From  Boston  to  Andover 60 

VI.     The  Professor 73 

VII.    The  Home  Story 86 

VIII.     The  Story;   and  the  Home 94 

IX.     The  Preacher  ;   and  the  Author 101 

X.     The  Cloud  Gathers 110 

XI.     The  Father 119 

XII.     Shut  In 131 

XIII.  Last  Years 142 

XIV.  Bar  Harbor 159 

XV.     The  Still  Hour 170 

LETTERS 185 


AUSTIN  PHELPS:  A  MEMOIE. 

CHAPTER   I. 

THE  PARENTS;   AND  THE  CHILD. 

Theee  may  be  two  reasons  for  writing  a  man's 
biography.  His  public  service  may  have  been  of  so 
valuable  a  kind  as  to  create  a  public  demand  for  the 
details  of  his  history.  Or,  his  private  character  may 
have  been  of  so  rare  an  order  as  to  add  the  materials 
of  inspiration  to  the  public  ideals. 

Sometimes  it  happens  that  these  two  motives  unite 
in  the  formation  of  one  memoir. 

In  the  case  of  him  whose  life  these  pages  will 
commemorate,  the  sacred  task  is  made  easier  to  the 
pen  which  attempts  it,  by  the  assurance  that  this 
dual  reason  for  doing  so  exists  in  fine  proportion. 
What  he  did  has  created  the  readers  who  will  care 
to  know  what  he  ivas.  His  professional  eminence  is 
reason  enough  for  the  appearance  of  this  memorial. 
But  his  personal  character  is  as  much  a  greater  rea- 
son, as  character  is  always  greater  than  reputation, 
and  private  nobility  than  public  honors. 

Austin  Phelps  was  the  child  of  a  strong  and  also 
of  a  sensitive  ancestry.  He  never  placed  great  em- 
phasis upon  his  genealogical  antecedents,  but  treated 

l 


2  AUSTIN  PHELPS. 

them  very  much  as  well-bred  people  treat  social  posi- 
tion,—  a  thing  too  evident  and  satisfactory  in  itself 
to  call  attention  to,  and  therefore  not  worth  mention- 
ing. So  far  as  is  known  he  was  contented  with  his 
ancestors,  but  fully  aware  that  one's  family  tree  is 
not  likely  to  be  a  subject  of  general  interest.  Some- 
times, when  we  asked  him,  he  would  tell  us  some- 
thing about  the  vague  figures  of  our  forefathers, 
whose  footprints  on  the  sands  of  fact  seemed  less 
real  to  us  than  those  of  Robinson  Crusoe's  Man 
Friday,  and  whose  relation  to  ourselves  seemed  of 
less  importance  than  the  movements  of  Mr.  Great- 
heart  in  the  "  Pilgrim's  Progress." 

Certain  of  these  forefathers  seem  to  have  been,  in 
the  remote  past,  connected  with  the  Guelphs  of  Guelph 
and  Ghibelline  history ;  and  while  he  never  found  it 
necessary  to  deny  the  diluted  drop  of  royal  blood  in 
the  family  veins,  he  knew  too  well  how  little  ancestry 
signifies  to  the  live  people  and  the  live  work  of  Amer- 
ica to-day,  to  inculcate  in  his  household  much  interest 
in  such  matters.  It  was  with  his  own  keen  sense  of 
the  ludicrous  that  he  detected  and  exposed  the  little 
vanity  of  one  of  his  children  who  boasted  to  a  mate 
of  being  "  descended  from  Queen  Victoria !  " 

The  family,  like  most  American  families  who  have 
amounted  to  anything,  sprang  from  that  "  one  set- 
tler" who  figures  so  prominently  in  genealogy,  and 
who  came  over  so  early  and  proved  so  useful  and  so 
eminent  in  his  day.  Such  items  are  not  of  public 
interest  in  a  memorial  like  this,  except  so  far  as  they 
can  give  a  definite  impression  of  the  kind  of  stock 
to  which  the  subject  of  the  biography  owed  his  tem- 
perament. 


THE   PARENTS;    AND   THE   CHILD.  3 

In  a  few  words  it  can  be  said  that  it  was  sturdy, 
clean,  intelligent,  "  well-connected "  stock  ;  we  find 
magistrates,  members  of  legislatures,  a  trustee  of  the 
colony,  or,  what  was  considered  an  equal  honor  in 
those  pious  times,  deacons  of  the  church,  and  so  on, 
—  a  comfortable,  honorable  record:  the  men  usually 
eminent  for  something  in  local  history ;  the  women 
domestic,  gentle,  modest,  and  always  very  religious. 
Indeed,  the  stock  was  devout  from  beginning  to  end, 
with  only  scapegraces  enough  hanging  to  the  branches 
of  the  tree  to  serve  as  a  foil  to  the  general  color  of 
the  blossom  and  flavor  of  the  fruit. 

The  father  of  Professor  Phelps  was  the  son  of 
a  Massachusetts  farmer  of  some  local  importance 
and  influence,  —  a  man  whose  neighbors  called  him 
"  Squire,"  and  who  gave  his  sons  a  college  educa- 
tion, and  started  them  well  in  life.  Eliakim  Phelps 
became  a  clergyman  of  the  Orthodox  Congregational 
Church,  and  was  a  man  of  ability  and  of  its  propor- 
tional success  :  both  these  facts  go  for  what  they  are 
worth  —  in  this  case  they  were  worth  decidedly  some- 
thing—  in  the  history  of  the  son. 

Dr.  Eliakim  Phelps  was  a  man  of  sanity,  both 
of  soul  and  body;  without  an  untuned  nerve,  with- 
out an  undue  prejudice,  firm,  fearless,  equable,  and 
lovable.  He  had  the  originality  to  belong  to  the 
underground  railroad,  in  the  times  which  tried  the 
fibre  of  men.  Clergymen  did  not  necessarily  find  it 
their  duty  in  those  days  to  protect  a  fugitive  slave 
in  peril  of  his  freedom  and  his  life.  Dr.  Phelps  did 
consider  it  his  ;  and  that  bit  of  blazonry  on  the  family 
escutcheon  shines  as  brightly  to  our  eyes  to-day,  as 
the   useful  little  religious  tale,  with  the  large  cir- 


4  AUSTIN  PHELPS. 

dilation,  for  which  Dr.  Phelps  was  responsible,  or 
the  great  "revivals"  which  occurred  in  his  ministry. 
Possibly  this  view  of  the  case  may  be  shared  by 
greater  and  wiser  eyes  than  ours. 

Dr.  Phelps's  name  has  been  somewhat  distorted 
from  its  natural  association  in  the  public  mind,  by 
the  painful  experience  of  house-possession,  similar  to 
that  afflicting  John  Wesley,  which  for  seven  months 
haunted  Dr.  Phelps's  household,  and  for  thirty -seven 
years  has  haunted  the  columns  of  the  American 
press. 

This  unpleasant  fact,  it  is  as  well  to  note,  was  only 
an  episode  in  the  history  of  a  useful  and  level-headed 
man,  who  bore  himself  through  it  with  a  serenity, 
and  good  sense,  and  simple,  undeviated  Christian 
faith,  which,  taken  together,  compose  the  chief  moral 
of  the  situation. 

Of  his  father,  Professor  Phelps  1  himself  says  :  — 

"  I  have  never  known  a  man  —  I  have  known  a 
few  women  —  who  had  a  more  profound  reverence 
than  he  had  for  the  office  and  work  of  a  Christian 
pastor.  To  him  they  were  above  all  other  digni- 
ties on  earth.  So  persuasive  was  this  conviction  in 
the  atmosphere  of  his  household,  that  I  distinctly 
remember  my  resolve,  before  I  was  four  years  old, 
that  I  would  become  a  minister ;  not  so  much 
because  the  ministry  was  my  father's  guild,  as 
because  he  had  taught  me  nothing  above  that  to 
which  ambition  could  aspire.  Was  not  ours  the 
house  of  Aaron,  and  ours  the  tribe  of  Levi  ?  " 

"  I  remember  once  riding  with  him  six  miles  into 
the  country  in  search  of  a  man,  not  one  of  his  con- 
lA  Pastor  of  the  Last  Generation,  "  My  Portfolio." 


THE   PARENTS;    AND   THE   CHILD.  5 

gregation,  but  who  professed  to  be  an  infidel,  and 
whom  my  father  claimed  on  the  principle  which  he 
often  affirmed  as  the  rule  of  his  pastoral  labors,  — 
'The  man  who  belongs  nowhere  belongs  to  me,  and 
I  must  give  account  of  him.'  " 

We  learn  that  Dr.  Phelps  was  one  of  the  first  men 
in  the  county  to  establish  a  Sunday-school,  much  to 
the  disapproval  of  his  deacons  ;  but  he  "  started  one 
the  next  day  after  he  heard  of  such  a  thing." 

He  "  organized  a  temperance  society,  on  the  prin- 
ciple of  total  abstinence,  when  only  one  other  member 
even  of  the  Brookfield  Association  of  Ministers  sup- 
ported the  movement.  He  was  the  first  clergyman  of 
the  county  to  remove  the  liquor-bottles  from  his  side- 
board. He  bore  calmly  the  charge  that  he  did  it 
from  parsimonious  motives. 

"An  aged  clerical  associate,  who  had  more  than 
once  been  seen  to  stagger  up  the  pulpit  stairs  on  a 
Sunday  afternoon,  begged  of  his  young  brother  not 
to  be  wiser  than  his  fathers,  nor  more  temperate  than 
his  blessed  Master.  For  one,  he  wanted  no  better 
example  than  the  Lord  Jesus." 

"  My  father,  by  natural  temperament,  was  not  a 
conservative,  and  he  was  not  a  radical.  .  .  .  But  if 
the  course  of  events  compelled  him  to  side  with  either 
extreme,  he  was  apt  to  drift  toward  the  side  of  the 
radical.  He  refused  his  pulpit  to  an  abolitionist 
lecturer,  .  .  .  because,  he  said,  his  people  had  rights 
there  which  he  was  bound  to  respect ;  but,  if  a  fugi- 
tive slave  applied  to  him,  ...  he  fell  back  on  first 
principles,  and  bade  his  fellow-man  welcome.  .  .  . 

"  He  once  employed  for  several  months  a  runaway 
negro  as  a  laborer.      One  morning  the  rumor  came 


\s 


6  AUSTIN  PHELPS. 

that  John's  master  was  at  the  hotel,  within  a  pistol- 
shot  of  the  parsonage,  that  he  had  obtained  a  warrant 
for  the  arrest  of  his  chattel,  and  that  he  had  a  leash  of 
dogs  on  hand  for  the  hunt.  Geneva  attracted  slave- 
hunters  at  that  time  ;  because,  besides  being  near  the 
border-line  of  Canada,  it  was  the  seat  of  a  negro 
colony  of  some  three  hundred,  nearly  all  the  adults 
being  runaways.  I  suppose  it  would  have  cost  the 
pastor  his  pulpit,  if  the  deed  of  that  day  had  been 
known.  The  United  States  marshal  of  the  district 
was  one  of  his  parishioners.  It  is  sufficient  token  of 
the  dominant  politics  of  that  period,  that  it  was  on 
the  eve  of  the  election  of  Martin  Van  Buren,  a  favorite 
son  of  New  York,  to  the  presidency.  Among  the 
pastor's  flock  were  magnates  to  whom  the  '  Union 
and  the  Constitution  '  were  second  only  to  the  oracles 
of  God. 

"  But  the  shield  was  turned  now  in  his  vision  ;  and 
John  appeared  to  have  rights,  which,  pulpit  or  no 
pulpit,  must  not  be  ignored  by  a  minister  of  Christ. 
He  resolved  that  John  should  have  fair  play.  He 
asked  him  if  he  wanted  to  go  back  to  Maryland. 
John  thought  not.  But  had  he  not  left  a  wife  in 
Maryland  ?  Yes,  but  he  had  '  anoder  one  '  in  Geneva. 
She  was  '  black  but  comely,'  and  had  borne  him  two 
children.  His  Maryland  master  had  not  taught  him 
very  clear  notions  of  the  marriage-tie.  On  the  whole, 
he  thought  '  he'd  sooner  die  than  leave  the  pickanin- 
nies.' '  If  he  went  back,  his  master  would  sell  him 
South.'  '  He'd  rather  go  to  hell.'  '  He  reckoned  he 
wouldn't  be  took  alive.'  '  He'd  take  his  chance  with 
the  hounds.' 

"  As  the  market  stood  in  those  days,  he  was  worth 


THE   PARENTS;    AND   THE   CHILD.  7 

taking  alive,  if  the  hounds  could  be  kept  off  from  the 
jugular  vein.  He  was  a  stout  'six-footer,'  in  the 
prime  of  manhood ;  a  bright  mulatto,  with  white 
brains,  sound  in  wind  and  limb ;  his  teeth  would  bear 
counting  on  the  auction-block,  and  he  was  a  trained 
mechanic  withal :  in  return  for  some  teaching-  which 
I  gave  him,  he  had  taught  me  how  to  shingle  a  barn. 
The  master's  title,  too,  was  beyond  a  doubt :  his  broad 
back  was  branded  very  legibly.  My  father  told  him 
he  hoped  nobody  would  have  to  die ;  but  he  added 
some  advice,  in  tones  too  low  for  me  to  hear,  but  with 
a  compression  of  the  mouth  which  was  well  under- 
stood in  the  discipline  of  the  family.  He  then  told 
John  to  take  to  a  certain  piece  of  woods,  and  wait 
there,  while  he  himself  went  to  the  hotel  to  recon- 
noitre. 

"  John  crept  around  the  barn  of  the  hotel  to  a  little 
cabin,  where  '  the  pickaninnies '  were  rolling  in  the 
dirt,  and  was  soon  ranging  the  woods.  A  few  hours 
after,  the  pastor  returned,  with  lips  more  sternly  com- 
pressed than  ever,  and  proceeded  to  make  up  a  basket 
of  food  for  John.  He  brought  it  to  me,  and  told  me 
to  go  with  it,  and  find  him.  My  father's  eye  silently 
answered  mine  when  I  observed  that  the  knife  was 
not  the  mate  of  the  fork,  that  it  was  too  large  to  be 
covered  in  the  basket,  that,  in  short,  it  was  the  largest 
carver  in  the  house,  —  the  one  with  which  John  had 
not  long  before  slaughtered  a  pig.  It  was  as  nearly 
a  facsimile  of  a  bowie-knife  as  the  credit  of  the  par- 
sonage ought  to  bear.  I  found  John.  His  eye,  too, 
alighted  first  on  the  familiar  knife.  The  grim  smile 
of  his  savage  ancestors  gleamed  around  his  white 
teeth.     He  played  with  the  food,  but  treasured  the 


8  AUSTIN  PHELPS. 

knife  in  his  bosom.  Said  he,  as  I  took  his  hand  at 
parting,  '  Tell  your  fader  that  he  is  a  Christian  and  a 
gemman,  ebery  inch  of  him.'  His  ideas  of  what 
Christianity  is  may  have  been  rather  mixed  (he  had 
learned  them  at  the  whipping-post)  ;  but  his  half- 
savage  intuitions  of  what  Christianity  ought  to  do 
for  a  hunted  man  were  not  far  wrong.  So,  at  least, 
the  pastor  thought.  It  was  well  for  dog  and  master 
that  they  did  not  find  John's  trail.  Indeed,  I  suspect 
the  dogs  were  left  at  the  hotel.  Even  Martin  Van 
Buren's  constituents  in  a  livery-stable  would  hardly 
have  winked  at  that  business  on  the  soil  of  New  York. 
Human  nature  has  an  innate  reverence  for  the  jugular 
vein. 

"  My  father's  prayer  with  us  that  night  was  unusu- 
ally solemn.  He  remembered  both  the  slave  and  the 
slave-hunter." 

In  regard  to  the  phenomena  at  Stratford,  to  which 
reference  has  been  made,  Professor  Phelps  among  other 
comments  makes  this  one :  "  That  the  facts  were  real, 
a  thousand  witnesses  testified.  An  eminent  judge  in 
the  State  of  New  York  said  that  he  had  pronounced 
sentence  of  death  on  many  a  criminal  on  a  tithe  of 
the  evidence  which  supported  those  facts.  That  they 
were  inexplicable  by  any  known  principles  of  science 
was  equally  clear  to  all  who  saw  and  heard  them,  who 
were  qualified  to  judge.  Experts  in  science  went  to 
Stratford  in  triumphant  expectation,  and  came  away 
in  dogged  silence,  convinced  of  nothing,  yet  solving 
nothing.  If  modern  science  had  nothing  to  show 
more  worthy  of  respect  than  its  solutions  of  Spirit- 
ualism, alchemy  would  be  its  equal,  and  astrology 
infinitely  its  superior.  .  .  . 


THE   PARENTS;    AND   THE   CHILD.  9 

"  To  my  father  the  whole  thing  was  a  visitation  from 
God.  He  bowed  to  the  affliction  in  sorrow  and  in 
prayer.  He  never  gave  credence  to  it  as  a  revelation 
of  religious  truth  for  an  hour.  The  only  point  in 
which  it  affected  his  interpretation  of  the  Scriptures 
was  that  of  the  biblical  demonology.  When  science 
failed  to  give  him  an  explanation  which  deserved 
respect,  he  fell  back  upon  the  historic  faith  of  the 
Christian  Church  in  the  personality  and  activity  of 
angels,  good  and  evil." 

It  is  one  of  the  truisms  of  biographical  literature 
that  men  of  eminence  owe  their  most  marked  quali- 
ties to  their  mothers. 

There  looks  down  upon  the  writer  from  the  old- 
fashioned  frame  of  an  older-fashioned  portrait,  one 
of  the  purest,  most  beautiful,  most  devout  faces 
that  ever  bent  with  happy  tears  above  the  cradle  of 
a  first-born  son. 

Sarah  Adams  was  at  once  a  saint  and  a  beauty, 
a  belle  and  a  devotee ;  and  when  she  married  the 
energetic  young  minister,  and  went  from  her  village 
home  in  Wilbraham,  Mass.,  to  his  first  parish  in 
Brookfield,  she  took  there  the  best  blessing  that  the 
sternest  law  of  heredity  can  select  for  unborn  chil- 
dren, —  the  mental  and  spiritual  harmony  of  a  perfect 
married  love. 

In  the  aged  hand  of  her  widowed  husband  we 
find  quaint  tributes  to  the  wife,  whom,  perhaps,  he 
never  viewed  apart  from  the  conventional  feminine 
ideal  of  his  times,  but  whose  rare  quality  he  felt  to 
the  day  of  his  death,  like  the  perfume  in  the  atmos- 
phere left  by  the  lily  of  a  vanished  angel. 


10  AUSTIN   PHELPS. 

He  tells  us  what  a  "  domestic  and  affectionate  dis- 
position "  she  had ;  that  she  "  was  never  known  to 
have  an  enemy  " ;  that  she  was  "  fond  of  books  and 
retirement."  He  adds  with  a  touch  of  pardonable 
vanity  that  she  was  "taken  to  be  thirty  when  she 
was  fifty,  and  when  travelling  with  her  eldest  son 
was  often  judged  to  be  his  wife."  She  was  the  "idol 
of  her  household,"  and  she  "  entered  into  that  higher 
life,  the  privilege  of  which  few  Christians  enjoy." 
He  adds  by  way  of  climax,  that  she  "  had  a  remark- 
able sense  of  propriety,  and  was  never  known  to  do 
a  foolish  thing." 

Quite  as  vivid  a  picture  of  this  lovely  matron  used 
to  come  to  us  from  his  own  lips,  which  never  tired 
of  saying,  —  and  we  wondered  sometimes  why  they 
should  tremble  when  they  said,  —  "  We  lived  together 
in  conjugal  happiness  for  almost  thirty  years.  I  never 
knew  her,  in  all  that  time,  to  do  one  unkind  or 
impatient  thing;  and  I  never  heard  her  speak  an 
irritable  word  to  any  human  being." 

It  seems,  indeed,  that  she  was  really  one  of  the 
few  mortals  of  whom  it  is  not  excessive  to  speak  in 
superlatives. 

In  Brookfield,  Mass.,  in  the  parsonage  of  his  father, 
Austin  Phelps  was  born.  It  was  the  year  1820,  — 
the  month  was  January,  and  the  day  the  seventh. 

Into  the  bitter  climate  of  one  of  the  coldest  sections 
of  Massachusetts  there  ventured  one  of  the  tiniest, 
most  unpromising  babies  who  ever  defied  the  prophe- 
cies of  wise  women  or  the  despairs  of  anxious  parents. 
It  was  one  of  the  family  traditions  that  the  child 
was  so  small  that  he  was  put  at  an  early  age  into  a 
coffee-pot;   and  the  mischievous  interest  which  his 


THE  PARENTS;    AND  THE  CHILD.  11 

own  children  took  in  this  bit  of  genealogy,  espe- 
cially the  astonishing  legends  with  which  they  orna- 
mented it,  never  failed  to  light  his  sense  of  humor. 
The  coffee-pot  story  was  one  of  our  little  devices  to 
divert  the  tides  of  dark  hours  which  always  yielded 
to  the  ingenuities  of  tenderness. 

Like  many  children  who  "  begin  hard,"  this  very 
little  baby  continued  to  meet  with  discouragements, 
and  celebrated  his  infantile  career  by  a  fall  from  the 
arms  of  a  careless  nurse  upon  a  stone  hearth.  Con- 
vulsions followed,  and  imminent  death  threatened 
the  child  for  some  time.  He  himself  believed  that 
much  of  the  physical  suffering  which  shadowed  his 
mature  life  owed  its  first  cause  to  this  accident. 
However  that  may  be,  the  child,  having  made  rather 
a  sad  entrance  through  the  gates  of  a  life  which  was 
to  know  its  full  share  of  human  pains,  passed  on, 
stoutly  enough,  to  a  period  of  good  health  and  good 
spirits  and  good  promise. 

We  are  told  that  when  he  was  "two  or  three  years 
old"— the  record  is  a  trifle  vague  just  here  — he 
began  to  read ;  and  it  is  noted,  without  surprise  or 
comment,  that  this  baby  "  learned  all  the  letters  of 
the  alphabet,  but  three,  in  one  day!"  Precocity 
followed  precocity.  At  the  age  of  four  he  reads  the 
Bible  at  prayers  with  the  family,  apparently  as  well 
as  anybody  else.  At  eight  he  can  do  any  sum  in 
cube  root  and  explain  every  process  in  the  opera- 
tion. He  himself  tells  us  that  he  distinctly  remem- 
bers a  great  public  event  which  occurred  when  he 
was  about  a  year  and  a  half  old.  This  characteristic 
sub-consciousness  is  conscientiously  explained  in  the 
autobiographic   notes,  which   he  left  at  the  urgent 


12  AUSTIN   PHELPS. 

request  of  a  member  of  his  family,  and  which,  as  he 
will  be  always  left  to  speak  for  himself  in  these 
pages,  when  he  can  do  so,  are  herein  reproduced, 
(with  a  few  omissions)  as  they  stand. 


CHAPTER  II. 

AUTOBIOGRAPHIC.  —  BOYHOOD. 
"  Reminiscences  of  my  Life. 

"  It  has  often  occurred  to  me  that  one  of  the  tem- 
porary and  early  occupations  of  a  redeemed  soul  in 
heaven  may  be  a  review  of  the  life  spent  here  on 
earth :  a  review  in  which  at  least  the  illumination  of 
a  spiritual  state,  if  not  indeed  some  special  revelation 
from  God,  shall  be  thrown  back  upon  these  earthly 
scenes,  their  mysteries  explained,  their  trials  inter- 
preted, the  exigencies  and  divine  deliverances  which 
they  involved  disclosed,  and  the  ways  of  God  vindi- 
cated to  the  wondering  and  grateful  spirit. 

"Then  the  thought  has  come  to  me  that  some 
remote  approach  to  such  a  review  may  be  made  by  a 
man  in  this  life;  after  the  chief  struggle  of  life  is 
over,  his  mind  is  matured,  and  he  can  look  back  with 
a  quiet  spirit  upon  the  perturbations  of  the  past. 

"It  is  with  this  rather  vague  purpose  that  I  jot 
down  in  these  pages  some  glimpse  of  my  outlook  upon 
my  past  life  as  it  seems  to  me  at  the  age  of  fifty-six. 

"  I  was  born  in  the  year  1820,  in  the  parsonage  of 
West  Brookfield,  Mass.,  which  my  father  had  then 
occupied  about  four  years.  The  place  itself  made 
no  impression  upon  my  mind  which  was  permanent 
except  the  shining  of  the  sun-light  on  the  broad  com- 

13 


14  AUSTIN  PHELPS. 

mon  in  summer  and  the  raging  of  the  snow-storms 
in  the  winter,  both  of  which  are  among  my  earliest 
recollections.  Of  Brookfield  localities  and  scenery 
those  are  the  only  two  things  which  have  entered 
into  my  character  —  the  green  common  in  July  and 
the  white  common  in  January. 

"  Of  the  people  of  the  village  I  remember  almost 
nothing,  having  left  them  at  the  age  of  six  years.  .  .  . " 
Here  follows  an  earnest  protest  against  "  the  vul- 
garity, the  profaneness,  and  the  obscenity"  of  the 
average  country  district  school.  "  The  innocence  of 
rural  life  was  not  illustrated  in  my  early  surround- 
ings. I  never  found  afterwards  in  colleges  or  in 
cities  such  corrupting  and  vulgarizing  influence.  .  .  . 
To  me  they  were  a  source  of  discomfort,  even  of  suf- 
fering. My  earliest  impression  of  social  life  was  that 
of  my  own  solitude.  I  felt  no  sympathy  with  my 
companions,  and  they  none  with  me.  As  '  the  minis- 
ter's son '  I  was  a  marked  boy  and  suffered  no  little 
torment  from  the  rudeness  of  the  rest. 

"  My  early  experience  in  this  respect  has  led  me  to 
question  the  correctness  of  the  common  opinion  of 
the  superior  vileness  of  cities  and  purity  of  country 
villages.  The  absence  of  social  caste  in  villages  and 
farming  towns  removes  a  protection  against  vice  which 
in  cities  a  Christian  family  may  have.  A  child  is 
subject  to  a  knowledge  of  all  the  wickedness  there  is 
in  a  democratic  American  town  of  small  population. 
Everybody  knows  everybody.  The  worst  have  access 
to  the  best.  The  consequence  is  that  a  child  has  no 
protection  through  ignorance  of  vice.  I  question,  too, 
whether  the  comparative  solitude  of  country  life  does 
not  promote  the  growth  of  lower  and  more  unmanly 


BOYHOOD.  15 

forms  of  vice  than  the  same  rank  of  families  would 
encounter  in  cities.  At  any  rate,  I  count  it  as  a 
deliverance  for  me  morally  that  I  was  removed  from 
the  social  atmosphere  of  my  birth-place  before  the 
most  perilous  period  of  my  youth  came  upon  me. 

"  My  memory  goes  back  to  a  period  earlier  than 
that  of  the  majority  of  children.  I  distinctly  remem- 
ber my  father's  announcing  one  day  the  death  of 
Napoleon,  of  which  the  news  had  just  arrived.  Yet 
that  event  occurred  before  I  had  finished  my  second 
year;  making  allowance  for  some  weeks  elapsing 
before  the  news  could  have  come  from  Europe  to 
this  country,  I  must  still  have  heard  it  some  months 
before  I  was  two  years  old.  The  tones  and  look  of 
my  father  in  speaking  of  it  are  very  vivid  to  my 
mind  to  this  day.  .  .  ." 

The  baby  seems  to  have  had  some  imagination  as 
well  as  a  phenomenal  memory,  for,  contemporary 
with  Napoleon,  in  the  intensity  of  life-long  impres- 
sion, is  the  sting  of  "a  calico  bumble-bee."  The 
record  turns  aside  to  this  bumble-bee,  as  if  to  allow 
the  relief  of  a  little  laugh  before  proceeding  gravely. 

"The  two  things  which  most  deeply  impressed 
me  in  my  Brookfield  life  were  my  father's  preaching  ^ 
and  my  mother's  songs.  Both  developed  in  me  very 
early  the  religious  instinct.  My  mother  was  a  beau- 
tiful singer,  and  my  father,  even  to  my  childish  sen- 
sibilities, was  a  magnetic  preacher.  The  best  parlor 
of  the  parsonage,  rarely  opened  to  me  except  on  Sun- 
days, was  hallowed  in  my  thought  by  my  mother's 
sweet  voice  in  Watts's  hymns  and  in  the  rehearsal  of 
the  Westminster  Catechism,  only  about  the  first  half 
of  which  I  was  thought  able  to  comprehend.     It  was 


16  AUSTIN   PHELPS. 

a  great  deliverance  when  my  half  was  finished  and 
I  was  let  off  to  some  more  congenial  occupation, 
while  my  elder  sister  was  obliged  to  plod  on  through 
mysteries  incalculable. 

"  I  very  early  got  the  notion  of  my  extreme  sinful- 
ness, —  too  early  for  such  conceptions  of  guilt  as 
those  which  tormented  me.  My  father  was  not  a 
morose  preacher,  and  personally  he  was  one  of  the 
most  genial  of  men.  My  mother  was  a  woman  of 
excellent  balance  of  mind  and  of  gentle  sensibilities. 
I  cannot  think  that  they  were  aware  of  the  despair- 
ing theology  in  which  at  that  time  I  lived.  I  dis- 
tinctly believed  myself  to  be  the  most  wicked  being 
alive.  I  had  not  a  doubt  of  it.  My  mind  went 
through  the  proofs  of  it  again  and  again.  I  was  the 
child  of  Christian  parents,  born  in  a  Protestant  land, 
a  New  England  child ;  and  none  such  ever  conceives 
it  possible  that  any  other  spot  on  earth  involves  the 
responsibility  of  such  religious  privileges  as  those 
which  belong  to  a  Yankee  born  and  bred.  I  was 
the  son  of  a  Christian  minister  too,  and  this  was  the 
height  of  responsibility,  and  if  not  improved  in  the 
result,  it  involved  the  extreme  of  guilt.  Over  and 
over  again  I  queried  whether  anybody  ever  could 
have  sinned  against  such  light  as  mine  and  could 
have  been  as  great  a  sinner,  and  my  answer  was 
uniformly  the  same.  It  was  for  years  a  profound 
reality  to  me,  unhealthful  in  its  influence  upon  me, 
and  in  the  result  corrupting  to  my  conscience.  All 
forms  of  religious  despair  are  so.  When  in  later 
years  I  became  familiar  with  the  life  of  the  poet 
Cowper,  I  detected  in  that  many  points  of  similarity 
to  my  own.     Yet  my  mother  has  told  me  that  at 


BOYHOOD.  17 

that  period  I  was  to  all  appearances  a  happy,  gleeful 
child. 

"I  do  not  remember  that  the  possibility  of  repent- 
ance ever  occurred  to  me  as  a  reality.  I  was  out 
and  out  a  fatalist.  Doomed  to  sin,  and  doomed  to 
suffer,  yet  with  no  thought  of  injustice  in  it  all,  I 
was  a  curious  personification  of  the  dominant  theology 
of  that  time  in  New  England.  It  was  not  until  my 
nineteenth  year  that  I  discovered  the  practicability 
of  repentance. 

"  One  impression  made  upon  me  in  the  infantile 
fragment  of  my  life  was  a  morbid  sense  of  the  horror 
of  death.  It  was  appalling  to  me,  without  a  ray  of 
light  to  illuminate  it.  Nothing  beyond  it  could 
surpass  it  in  my  conception  of  its  horrors  :  and  noth- 
ing of  joy  beyond  it  could  assume  any  reality  to 
my  childish  faith,  so  long  as  it  must  be  approached 
through  such  fearful  portals.  A  funeral  was  the 
symbol  of  all  that  was  repulsive,  and  to  my  thought 
uselessly  so.  I  was  compelled  to  attend  funerals,  in 
the  hope,  I  suppose,  that  familiarity  would  overcome 
my  morbid  antipathy  to  such  scenes.  They  only 
aggravated  it.  At  last,  it  became  my  habit  to  play 
truant  and  hide  myself  whenever  a  funeral  was  in 
the  prospect.  I  hear  to  this  day  my  father's  deep 
voice  calling  me  to  the  sacrifice,  while  I  lay  con- 
cealed in  the  barn,  or  under  the  hill.  It  was  an 
unspeakable  relief  to  me  when  I  saw  the  funeral 
procession  winding  its  way  to  the  village  graveyard, 
too  far  away  for  me  to  be  caught  in  its  anaconda 
folds. 

"  The  morbid  interest  in  funerals  which  is  common 
in  rural  villages  was  intensified  on  its  terrific  side  to 


18  AUSTIN  PHELPS. 

me  by  the  popular  hymnology  on  the  subject  of  death 
and  its  concomitants.     The  hymn, 

'  Oft  as  the  bell  with  solemn  toll 
Speaks  the  departure  of  a  soul,'  etc., 

I  was  taught  to  repeat,  and  it  was  my  regular  trib- 
ute to  the  occasion  when  the  church-bell  proclaimed 
the  awful  event.  I  have  never  recovered  from  that 
timidity  respecting  death  and  the  grave.  To  this 
day  I  seldom  see  a  dead  body  without  having  it 
fastened  upon  my  vision  for  days  afterwards  in  all 
sorts  of  repulsive  and  hideous  postures  and  grimaces. 
I  never  look  upon  a  corpse  if  I  can  with  decency 
avoid  it.  My  dearest  friends  have  been  laid  out  of 
my  sight  without  a  look  from  me  into  their  coffins. 
Were  it  not  that  in  my  later  years  my  conceptions 
of  heaven  as  a  place,  as  a  world  of  organized  society, 
in  some  respects  not  unlike  this  world,  have  become 
equally  vivid,  I  think  the  single  fact  of  Death  would 
have  made  my  whole  life  undesirable  to  me,  as  it  did 
make  a  portion  of  my  childhood.  ..." 

Alluding  to  the  effects  of  the  fall  from  his  nurse's 
arms  upon  the  hearth,  he  says :  — 

"  For  the  first  ten  years  it  was  no  uncommon  thing 
for  me  to  lie  awake  at  night  long  after  a  well  child 
should  have  been  asleep.  Then  began  that  peculiar- 
ity by  which  no  small  portion  of  my  waking  life  has 
been  spent  at  night,  when  the  world  around  me  were 
unconscious. 

"  The  second  period  of  my  life  was  a  brief  two 
years  spent  at  Pittsfield,  Mass.  My  father  removed 
to  that  place  in  1826,  as  the  principal  of  the  Young 
Ladies'  High  School,  which  afterwards  became   the 


BOYHOOD.  19 

present  '  Maplewood  School,'  if  I  have  the  name  cor- 
rectly. The  great  event  of  that  period  to  me  was 
the  fatal  illness  of  my  only  sister,  who  died  of  heart- 
disease  about  a  year  after  our  family  left  Pittsfield. 
The  sadness  of  that  affliction  brooded  over  our  house- 
hold, and  by  absorbing  the  time  of  my  mother,  left 
me  very  much  to  myself. 

"  Then  began  my  acquaintance  with  men  of  dis- 
tinction as  educators,  under  whose  influence  the 
remainder  of  my  youth  was  passed,  and  to  whom  I 
can  now  trace  very  valuable  results  in  the  forming 
of  my  mind.  The  chief  of  them  are  the  following : 
Rev.  Dr.  Chester  Dewey,  principal  of  the  High  School 
for  Boys  at  Pittsfield ;  Rev.  Dr.  Wilbur  Fisk,  presi- 
dent of  the  Wilbraham  Academy ;  Rev.  Asa  Messer 
and  Rev.  Justus  French,  masters  of  high  schools  at 
Geneva,  N.Y. ;  Hon.  Horace  Webber,  professor  in 
Geneva  College,  and  afterwards  at  the  head  of  the 
College  of  New  York  City;  Professor  A.  D.  Bache, 
of  the  University  of  Pennsylvania,  and  afterwards  of 
the  United  States  Coast  Survey ;  Professor  Henry 
Vethake  of  the  same  University,  and  an  author  of 
distinction  in  political  economy ;  and  Professor  Henry 
Reed  of  the  University,  and  editor  of  the  Works  of 
Wordsworth  in  this  country,  and  author  of  several 
valuable  volumes  on  English  literature ;  and  Dr. 
N.  W.  Taylor  of  New  Haven. 

"  I  count  it  among  the  providential  and  signal 
blessings  of  my  life  that,  in  the  forming  period  of 
my  mind,  I  was  brought  in  contact  with  so  many  and 
so  diverse  men  of  high  endowments,  rich  in  scholarly 
acquisitions,  and  all  of  them  reverent  students  of  the 
works  and  ways  of  God.     From  them  I  gained  very 


20  AUSTIN   PHELPS. 

early  in  life  a  reverence  for  learning,  and  a  lofty  esti- 
mate of  mind,  which  have  entered  profoundly  into  all 
my  experience.  It  was  of  inestimable  value  to  me  to 
have  such  specimens  of  mental  culture  to  look  up  to 
through  those  creative  years.  The  influence  was  such 
that  I  do  not  now  remember  an  hour  of  my  life  in 
which  the  temptations  of  wealth,  which  turn  aside  so 
many  educated  young  men  from  literary  and  profes- 
sional pursuits,  had  any  sway  of  my  mind  at  all,  or 
stirred  my  ambition.  I  have  had  years  of  oppressive 
poverty,  but  my  aspirations  never  wavered  from  the 
scholarly  and  religious  aims  with  which  I  began  the 
work  of  manhood.  I  attribute  this,  under  God,  to 
the  decisive  and  formative  influence  of  those  of  my 
instructors  who  were  truly  great  men  and  rich  in 
culture. 

"  Pittsfield  was  the  scene  of  the  first  awakening  of 
my  mind  to  ambition  for  distinction  in  anything.  It 
is  a  great  thing  for  a  boy,  before  religious  principle 
has  become  fixed  and  ascendant  in  his  character,  to 
have  his  ambition  roused.  It  matters  little  what  the 
aim  is,  if  it  be  intrinsically  worth  striving  for.  It  is 
a  great  protection  against  vice  and  against  mental 
degradation. 

"  In  my  own  case,  the  object  of  aspiration  was  ex- 
cellence in  elocution.  Why  this  rather  than  any  other 
aim  quickened  me,  I  cannot  say,  but  so  it  was.  At 
the  age  of  eight  years  I  became,  in  the  circle  of  school- 
boy life,  a  distinguished  speaker.  I  revelled  in  decla- 
mation. It  was  for  years  the  great  delight  of  my 
days,  and  often  the  subject  of  my  dreams.  At  public 
exhibitions  I  was  in  demand.  Usually  my  name 
closed  the  list  of  speakers.     I  remember  the  hour 


BOYHOOD.  21 

at  which  the  conception  of  a  good  speech  dawned 
upon  me.  It  was  the  opening  of  a  new  world.  For 
weeks  after  I  lived  in  the  joy  of  it,  more  luxuriously 
than  if  it  had  been  a  mine  of  gold.  To  the  elocu- 
tionary enthusiasm  of  those  few  years  I  can  trace 
some  of  the  most  powerful  jets  of  influence  upon  the 
subsequent  formation  of  my  style  as  a  writer.  At 
that  period  the  hope  of  being  some  day  an  orator  in 
public  life  was  my  North  Star.  The  loss  of  it  would 
have  been  a  great  sorrow.  Declamatory  soliloquy 
became  one  of  my  chief  amusements.  As  an  elevat- 
ing and  protecting  power  it  was  in  some  respects 
a  grand  substitute  for  religious  principle.  Vice  in 
deed  or  thought  was  an  appalling  contrast,  in  my 
view,  to  the  moments  of  glory  in  which  I  experienced 
the  joy  of  successful  declamation.  Of  original  thought 
and  utterance  at  that  time  I  had  no  idea. 

"To  the  brief  period  of  life  in  Pittsfield  there  fol- 
lowed a  still  briefer  one  of  one  year,  as  a  member  of 
the  Wilbraham  Academy  in  Massachusetts.  There 
I  continued  the  classical  study,  in  preparation  for  col- 
lege, which  I  had  begun  under  Dr.  Dewey.  That  year 
was  marked  chiefly  by  the  death  of  my  sister. 

"  In  1830  I  removed  with  my  father's  family  to 
Geneva,  N.Y.,  where  he  was  pastor  of  the  First  Pres- 
byterian Church.  There  were  spent  the  following 
five  years  of  my  life.  Most  eventful  years  they 
were,  too,  in  the  development  of  my  mind  and  char- 
acter. 

"  I  became  almost  immediately  sensible  of  the 
strange  excitant  power  of  a  new  country.  Western 
New  York  was  at  that  time  of  comparatively  recent 
settlement.     Land-offices  existed  for  the  sale  of  lands 


22  AUSTIN   PHELPS. 

by  the  first  purchasers  from  the  government.  Large 
tracts  of  forest  remained,  and  of  pastures  picturesque 
with  the  stumps  of  trees.  Everything  was  thrifty, 
bustling,  pushing.  The  character  of  the  people, 
though  they  were  largely  emigrants  from  New  Eng- 
land, was  that  common  to  emigrant  communities. 
Character  in  extremes  abounded.  Extreme  sin,  ex- 
-\j  treme  piety,  contended  for  the  mastery.  Revivals  of 
religion  swept  over  the  whole  region.  A  very  power- 
ful one  occurred  under  my  father's  ministry. 

"  So  impressible  a  nature  as  mine  could  not  but 
feel  the  power  of  the  change  from  a  staid  New 
England  village.  I  was  distinctly  and  positively 
conscious  of  rapid  mental  growth.  The  beauty  of 
Geneva  Lake  was  the  first  thing  that  gave  me  any 
notion  of  aesthetics.  The  name  I  knew  not,  but  the 
thing  developed  itself  with  great  force.  For  a  time 
it  overwhelmed  me. 

"  A  similar  growth  in  the  power  of  application  in 
study  took  place.  Mathematics  was  my  favorite  de- 
partment. Of.  literature  I  had  no  conception,  except 
of  those  qualities  of  style  which  make  good  material 
for  declamation.  My  chief  interest  in  preaching  at 
that  time  was  in  '  eloquent '  passages,  which  I  listened 
to  with  the  zest  of  an  expert.  That  early  taste  for 
declamation,  I  think,  was  the  root  of  the  chief  defect 
and  the  chief  excellence  of  my  own  style  for  years 
after  I  entered  the  University.  Its  turgidity  was 
due  to  the  fact  that  my  taste  recognized  nothing  as 
superior  in  quality  which  would  not  declaim  well. 
A  keen  critic  of  my  early  sermons  once  said  of  me, 
'That  young  fellow  preaches  as  if  he  lived  on  the 
"  Paradise  Lost."  :    It  was  true,     Mentally  I  did  live 


BOYHOOD.  23 

on  sonorous  periods.  I  preached  a  great  deal  of  non- 
sense in  blank  verse.  But  on  the  other  hand,  the 
same  taste,  extreme  though  it  was,  kept  my  mind  for 
years  on  the  strain  against  humdrum.  Perhaps  in 
the  long  run  the  one  effect  offset  the  other.  Of  the 
fact  that  the  early  opening  of  my  powers  to  mental 
production  was  ruled  by  the  school  platform,  I  have 
no  doubt.  The  same  elocutionary  taste  continued  to 
act  as  a  protection  against  degrading  vices.  Among 
my  competitors  in  declamation  in  those  early  days 
was  Bishop  Coxe  of  Western  New  York.  This  was 
at  Pittsfield,  however. 

"  The  revival  of  religion  which  took  place,  I  think, 
in  my  twelfth  year,  affected  me  powerfully  for  the 
time.  I  went  through  the  usual  excitement  of  such 
scenes,  attended  children's  prayer -meetings,  took 
prominent  part  in  them,  prayed  much  in  secret,  and 
thought  of  little  else  than  the  salvation  of  my  soul. 
If  any  one  at  that  crisis  had  kindly  diverted  my 
thoughts  from  the  idea  of  regeneration  to  that  of 
simple  right  living  in  the  ways  natural  to  a  child,  I 
think  I  might  then  have  become  a  child  of  God. 
What  I  needed,  as  I  now  look  back  to  the  state  of 
my  mind,  was  to  be  made  to  believe  in  truth-telling, 
honesty,  honor,  unselfishness,  care  for  the  happiness  of 
others,  as  well  as  love  to  God  and  trust  in  Christ,  as 
Christian  things.  I  had  no  conception  of  them  as  such. 
They  were  of  the  earth,  earthy.  I  longed  for,  and 
prayed  for,  and,  worst  of  all,  waited  for,  some  sublime 
and  revolutionary  change  of  heart;  and  what  that 
was,  as  a  fact  in  a  child's  experience,  I  had  not  the 
remotest  idea.  If  I  had  been  trained  in  the  Episcopal 
Church,  I  should  at  that  time  have  been  confirmed, 


^ 


24  AUSTIN  PHELPS. 

have    entered   on   a   consciously   religious   life,  and 
grown  up  into  Christian  living,  of  the  Episcopal  type. 

C  It  was  to  me  a  sad  misfortune  that  my  Presbyterian 
culture  had  not,  in  add  it  ton  to  its  high  spiritual  ideal 
of  regenerate  character,  something  equivalent  to  the 

\  Episcopal  ideal  of  Christian  growth.  For  the  want 
of  that  I  floundered  about  for  a  while  in  the  ebb  and 
flow  of  the  revival,  without  one  jot  of  good  that  I 
know  from  it.  Many  of  my  companions  thought 
they  were  converted,  and  they  exhorted  me  accord- 
ingly. I  never  so  far  lost  my  head  as  to  believe  that 
I  had  met  with  any  such  change  as  I  supposed  re- 
generation to  be.  I  knew  too  much  for  that,  and  my 
companions  found  it  out  for  themselves,  after  a  time, 
and  gave  up  their  illusive  hopes. 

"  My  belief  is  that  hundreds  of  older  people  did 
turn  to  God  in  that  revival.  But  I  have  yet  to  learn 
of  one  of  my  own  age  who  was  at  all  benefited  by  it. 
To  me  it  was  an  unmitigated  evil,  hardening  in  its 
effect  on  my  religious  sensibilities,  and  the  prelude 
to  a  period  of  worldliness  in  which  I  lived  without 
prayer.  That  experience  has  colored  my  convictions 
in  subsequent  life,  of  the  unnaturalness  of  subjecting 
very  young  people  to  the  usual  stimulant  of  a  revival. 
The  natural  avenue  to  God  for  a  Christian  child  is 
the  Christian  home,  the  family  altar,  the  social  amen- 
ities of  life  suffused  by  the  love  of  God  and  man  — 
not  the  flaming  excitement  of  the  inquiry  meeting 
and  the  place  of  public  prayer.  To  push  a  child  for- 
ward into  such  scenes  involves  a  fearful  peril. 

"  Indeed,  my  whole  experience  in  life  —  and  I  may 
as  well  record  it  here  —  has  impressed  me,  not  with  a 
sense  of  the  superiority  of  the  Episcopal  policy  as  a 


BOYHOOD.  25 

whole,  but  of  our  urgent  need  of  those  parts  of  it 
which  contribute  to  Christian  nurture.  There  is  such 
a  thing  as  coming  up  into  religious  living  in  a  natural 
way.  There  is  an  unconscious  growth  possible  to  all. 
The  family  is  the  nursery  of  it ;  and  the  Church  is 
but  the  family  on  an  extended  scale.  The  Episcopal 
Church  realizes  in  the  life  more  of  the  elements  of 
such  natural  Christian  training  than  any  other.  The 
rite  of  confirmation,  the  division  of  the  Christian 
year,  the  observance  of  certain  natural  anniversaries, 
and  the  policy  of  keeping  in  the  background  the  idea 
of  regeneration  in  the  experience  of  the  children  of 
Christian  families,  are  expedients  which  I  am  sure 
would  have  been  a  valuable  help  to  me. 

"  The  toggery  of  Ritualism,  the  strut  of  ecclesias- 
tical authority,  the  fawning  upon  culture  and  wealth, 
the  handling  of  the  poor  and  the  ignorant  in  an  au- 
thoritative way  and  at  arms'  length,  and  the  intense 
exclusiveness  and  bigotry  in  religious  fellowship, 
which  are  found  in  some  sections  of  the  Episcopal 
Church,  have  through  life  repelled  me  from  it.  But 
my  experience  has,  beyond  all  question,  suffered  for 
the  want  of  its  power  of  Christian  nurture,  involved 
in  its  theory  of  conversion,  in  some  of  its  ceremonies, 
its  love  of  ancient  ritual  and  song.  I  sometimes 
query  whether  mine  would  have  been  the  gain  or  the 
loss  on  the  whole,  if  at  the  time  I  now  speak  of  I 
had  been  transferred  to  the  Episcopal  Fold. 

"  I  well  remember  hearing  Dr.  Finney  preach  at 
that  time  of  which  I  now  write.  He  was  then  at  the 
zenith  of  his  fame  as  a  revivalist.  Western  New 
York  was  all  aflame  with  the  excitement  produced  by 
his  'protracted  meetings.'    He  and  his  measures  were 


26  AUSTIN  PHELPS. 

the  standing  theme  of  debate  among  the  ministers 
who  often  assembled  at  my  father's  house.  My  father 
sympathized  with  and  defended  him.  Others  were 
warmly  opposed  to  him.  My  boyish  opinions  went 
through  some  pretty  severe  fluctuations  as  I  listened 
silently  to  the  clerical  talk. 

"  I  think  I  received  at  that  time  a  tendency  which 
I  have  never  lost.  .  .  .  For  my  own  religious 
growth,  I  do  not  think  I  have  ever  felt  the  need  of 
the  usual  methods  of  revivals,  nor  have  I  been  con- 
scious of  development  in  them.  For  others,  I  accept 
them  and  believe  in  them.  But  my  own  soul  craves 
a  different  discipline." 


CHAPTER  III. 

AUTOBIOGRAPHIC.  —  EARLY  MANHOOD. 

"I  was  fitted  for  college  at  the  age  of  twelve  years, 
and  entered  Hobart  College  at  Geneva  in  the  year 
following.  I  was  well  fitted  according  to  the  curric- 
ulum of  that  period,  and  was  able  to  sustain  a  good 
rank   in   my  class,  usually  being  recognized   as  its 

head. 

"  I  am  deeply  indebted  to  the  Hon.  Horace  Web- 
ster, then  professor  in  Hobart  College,  for  certain 
awakening  and  cheering  influences  upon  me.  He 
gave  me  lessons  in  advance  of  my  class  and  heard  me 
recite  them  in  private.  I  was  greatly  aroused  by 
once  hearing  that  he  had  said  to  some  one  else  that 
'  the  world  would  yet  hear  from  young  Phelps.'  I 
inwardly  resolved  that  it  should. 

"  In  view  of  the  fact  that  so  much  of  my  later  life 
has  been  devoted  to  literary  criticism,  one  other  fact 
in  my  college  life  at  Geneva  is  worth  recording.  My 
tutor  in  the  languages  I  observed  watching  me  very 
narrowly  for  many  days,  when  I  was  called  up  to 
recite.  At  length  he  directed  me  to  remain  after  the 
class  had  retired.  I  did  so ;  and  he  questioned  me 
closely  as  to  my  methods  of  study,  and  specially  in- 
quired whether  I  sought  aid  from  translations.  I 
could  truthfully  answer  that  I  did  not.  He  accepted 
my  word  for  it  with  evident  pleasure,  and  told  me 

27 


28  AUSTIN   PHELPS. 

that  my  translations  were  so  critically  accurate  that 
he  feared  I  was  using  illegitimate  helps.  I  hardly 
knew  what  he  meant :  the  virtue  was  an  unconscious 
one ;  but  I  suppose  that  whatever  success  I  have 
since  then  achieved  in  literary  work  is  in  part  due 
to  an  innate  taste  which  was  then  beginning  to 
develop  itself. 

"  Geneva  College  was  not  at  that  time  a  safe  place 
for  a  lad  of  my  age.  I  entered  at  the  age  of  thirteen, 
and  found  myself  in  the  midst  of  a  rather  corrupt 
life.  Many  of  the  students  were  from  the  South ; 
very  few  were  Christians,  some  were  intemperate, 
some  have  since  then  died  drunkards.  My  age,  the 
restraining  influences  of  home,  and  my  ambition 
served  to  protect  me  from  degrading  vices.  I  do  not 
remember  that  I  was  ever  solicited  to  participate  in 
the  revels  of  my  companions. 

"  Why  my  father  removed  me  from  Geneva  College 
I  have  never  known.  But  near  the  close  of  my 
second  year  there,  I  was  sent  to  Amherst,  with  the 
expectation  of  remaining  there  through  the  remainder 
of  the  course.  The  change  was  to  me  a  very  painful 
one.  I  was  not  only  the  youngest  in  a  class  of 
eighty,  but  my  classmates  were  all  full-grown  men. 
My  chum  was  nearly  ten  years  my  senior.  I  had  no 
chance  for  distinction  among  such  mature  minds. 
If  I  had  remained,  I  should  not  have  risen  above 
mediocrity.  I  was  not  at  all  tried  by  my  peers.  The 
effect  was  perilous  to  me  morally.  The  chief  pro- 
tective influence  which  I  had  hitherto  felt,  that  of 
my  scholarly  ambition,  was  discouraged  by  the  im- 
possibility of  excelling;  and  I  had  as  yet  no  religious 
principle    to   take    its    place.     At   that   time,  seven- 


EARLY  MANHOOD. 


eighths  of  the  students  in  the  college  were  professing 
Christians  ;  yet  I  was  really  in  greater  peril  of  falling 
into   irreligious   and  immoral   ways  than   I   was   at 
Geneva.      My   invincible   homesickness    caused   me 
great  misery.     I  was  there  but  six  months;  and  I 
cannot  recall  one  happy  day  in  the  whole  time.     Nor 
do  I  now  recall  any  special  influence  upon  my  char- 
acter which  was  lasting,  though  I  felt  a  profound 
respect  for  the  Amherst  Faculty  of  that  period.     I 
was  not  there  long  enough  to  form  such  relations  as 
had  existed  between  Professor  Webster  and  myself, 
and  afterwards  did  exist  with  Professor  Henry  Reed 
Yet  I  had  a  splendid  set  of  classmates  at  Amherst.    It 
I  had  only  been  their  peer,  I  could  not  have  asked 
for  more  stimulating  surroundings.     Among  my  asso- 
ciates there  were  the  Hon.  Ensign  Kellogg  of  Pitts- 
field  Hon.  Mr.  Doolittle  of  Wisconsin,  Hon.  Daniel 
March   of   Pennsylvania,    Hon.    Judge   Williams   of 
Pittsburgh,   Rev.    Dr.    Poor   of    Philadelphia,   Hon 
E.   B.   Gillette   of    Westfield,   Professor   Haven    ot 
Chicago,   and   many   other   most   estimable  men   or 
scholarly  clergymen.     I  say  associates  —  they  were 
there  and  I  was  there :  that  is  about  all.     I  had  no 
companions,  properly  so  called.     I  lived  in  absolute 
mental  solitude. 

"In  December,  1835,  when  I  was  within  a  month 
of  the  completion  of  my  sixteenth  year,  I  was  re- 
moved from  Amherst  College  to  the  University  of 
Pennsylvania  at  Philadelphia.  The  change  was  due 
wholly  to  considerations  of  my  father's  domestic 
convenience.  He  had  just  removed  to  that  city  to 
reside;  and,  there  being  a  good  college  there,  I 
naturally  went  home,  and  finished  my  college  course 


AUSTIN   PHELPS. 

there^\  I  think  that  the  day  I  arrived  in  Philadelphia 
ras  one  of  the  happiest  of  my  life.  In  all  respects 
the  change  was  a  most  valuable  one  for  me.  The 
unnatural  solitude  of  my  life  at  Amherst  was  broken 
up.  The  novelties  of  city  life  were  a  marvellous  and 
healthy  stimulus  to  me.  In  college  I  found  myself 
again  among  my  equals  in  age  and  culture,  and  my 
literary  ambition  revived.  More  than  all  else,  the 
influence  of  two  men  became  to  me  an  awakening,  a 
corrective,  and  in  every  way  a  creative  power  to  my 
mind. 

One  of  those  was  Professor  Henry  Reed,  who  then 
held  the  department  of  English  Literature  in  the 
University.  He  first  opened  to  me  the  'well  of  Eng- 
lish undefiled.'  His  classic  and  quiet  taste  was  the 
first  corrective  I  ever  felt  to  the  declamatory  tastes 
of  my  youth.  His  enthusiastic  admiration  of  Words- 
worth, whose  works  he  edited  in  this  country,  first 
taught  me  to  appreciate  that  wonderful  mind,  and 
that  kind  of  literature  which  his  poetry  represented. 
I  spent  hours  in  the  privacy  of  Professor  Reed's 
study,  while  he  patiently  explained  to  me  wherein 
consisted  the  superiority  of  the  Wordsworthian  type 
of  literature.  I  have  often  thought  since  that  I  must 
have  bored  him  with  my  crude  inquiries.  If  a  grate- 
ful spirit  in  mature  years  could  be  any  compensation 
for  his  scholarly  patience,  he  certainly  has  had  some 
reward  from  me.  I  look  upon  him  as  one  of  the 
rare  minds  whose  influence  was  ascendant  in  my 
early  culture. 

"  He  once  gave  me  a  richly  deserved  reproof, 
which  was  characteristic  of  the  man.  I  had  been 
required  to  present  an  essay  for  criticism.     The  sub- 


EARLY   MANHOOD.  31 

ject  I  do  not  remember.  But  at  about  that  time  I 
had  read  with  great  admiration  an  address  by  Edward 
Everett  to  some  college  society  in  New  England. 
The  whole  country  rang  with  Mr.  Everett's  literary 
fame  at  that  period.  The  oration  in  question  had 
taken  possession  of  my  mind ;  and  in  my  own  essay 
I  had  made  use  of  fragments  of  it  in  a  way  quite 
beyond  the  liberty  of  quotation.  I  had  not  distinctly 
intended  to  plagiarize.  But  I  had  no  definite  con- 
ception of  what  constituted  plagiarism;  and  I  had 
given  way  to  my  admiration  of  the  production  of 
that  gifted  pen  by  drafts  which  I  have  since  sus- 
pected were  plagiarisms  of  a  glaring  type. 

"  My  essay  went  before  the  gentlemanly  professor, 
and  in  less  than  an  hour  was  returned  to  me,  with 
criticisms  more  abundant  than  usual  upon  those  pages 
which  were  unquestionably  original  with  me,  and  not 
one  word  upon  the  rest.     At  first  I  was  confounded. 
But  I  must  have  had  some  obscure  consciousness  of 
wrong,  for  it  was  not  long  before  the  idea  dawned 
upon  me:    the  professor  does  not  mean  to  criticise 
Edward  Everett.      Not  one  word  did  he  ever  say  to 
me  on  the  subject  afterwards :  no  solemn  reproof ;  no 
charge  of  conscious  wrong  which  would  have  humili- 
ated me;  and  no  disclosure  of  my  error  by  public 
reproof.     When,  a  few  days  after,  I  met  him,  half 
expecting  to  be  arraigned  for  literary  theft,  he  met 
me  as  if  I  had  been  his  literary  equal.     It  was  a  life- 
long lesson  to  me.    I  never  afterwards  even  blundered 
into  plagiarism,  so  far  as  I  know ;  and  the  professor's 
considerateness  of  my  youth  and  ignorance  gave  me 
a  new  conception  of  a  scholarly  gentleman.     Alas  ! 
Poor  man!     Years  afterwards,  I  followed  the  track  of 


^M 


32  AUSTIN  PHELPS. 

his  travels  in  Europe,  searching  gratefully  for  his 
beloved  name  in  the  registers  of  hotels,  and  mourning 
over  the  loss  of  him  by  shipwreck  on  his  voyage 
home.  The  same  ship  which  had  borne  me  safely  to 
the  Old  World  —  the  Arctic  —  was  wrecked  with  him 
on  the  voyage  back.  He  met  death,  with  his  sister's 
hand  clasped  in  his,  with  the  same  serene  faith  which 
characterized  his  literary  tastes  all  through  life. 

"  The  other  mind  before  which  my  own  made  rev- 
erent obeisance,  during  the  years  of  my  life  in  Phila- 
delphia, was  that  of  Albert  Barnes.  Probably  I  owe 
more,  all  things  considered,  to  his  influence  over  me 
in  those  formative  years  of  my  youth  than  to  any 
other  one  man  except  my  father.  Yet  I  find  it  difficult 
now  to  define  wherein  his  great  power  over  me  lay. 
I  surely  have  known  greater  men  than  he,  more  origi- 
nal thinkers,  more  accurate  scholars,  more  instructive 
authors,  and,  as  the  world  judges,  more  powerful 
preachers.  I  did  not  get  so  near  to  him,  in  social 
intercourse,  as  to  some  other  men.  Still,  he  repre- 
sents the  focal  power  over  my  culture  in  those  six 
years  in  which  I  was  one  of  his  parishioners.  I  found 
myself  drawn  by  a  singular  affinity  to  the  man.  His 
personal  qualities  fascinated  me.  My  mind  seemed 
spontaneously  to  be  working  towards  the  same  plane 
of  things  which  he  had  reached.  My  thinking  ran 
naturally  in  the  same  grooves.  His  tastes,  his  opin- 
ions, his  aspirations,  his  literary  and  professional  aims, 
—  in  a  word,  the  make  and  culture  of  the  man, — ■ 
seemed  to  form  a  world  of  thought  and  feeling  in 
which  I  felt  at  home.  Whatever  he  said  and  did 
seemed  to  me  just  that  which  it  would  have  been 
natural  for  me  to  say  and  do,  if  I  could.     Then  there 


EARLY  MANHOOD.  33 

was  a  profound  intellectual  and  moral  sympathy 
between  us.  I  say  'moral,'  because  it  extended  to 
the  type  of  his  religious  character,  as  well  as  to  his 
intellectual  being.  This  was  true  of  our  relations, 
from  the  first  time  I  ever  saw  him  to  the  last.  Even 
when  I  had  long  since  learned  to  differ  from  him  in 
opinion,  my  sympathy  with  the  make  of  the  man 
never  wavered  or  grew  less.  His  preaching  in  those 
years  moved  me  as  that  of  no  other  man  ever  did 
before  or  since.  I  have  heard  the  ablest  preachers  of 
this  country  and  Great  Britain,  but  never  one  of  them 
has  risen  so  near  to  my  finished  ideal  of  a  Christian 
preacher  as  he  did. 

"  In  the  University  of  Pennsylvania  I  was  restored 
to  the  society  of  my  peers.  The  unnatural  mental 
solitude  in  which  I  lived  at  Amherst  was  broken  up. 
Though  I  was  still  the  junior  of  all  my  classmates, 
yet  I  was  not  so  vastly  below  them  as  to  discourage 
effort.  I  took  rank  at  once  among  them  as  one  of  the 
born  scholars  of  the  class.  At  my  graduation,  the 
valedictory  was  assigned  to  me,  but  it  was  not  there, 
as  in  New  England,  the  sign  of  the  headship  of  the 
class  in  classical  learning.  Eminence  in  composition 
and  on  the  platform  was  taken  into  account.  As  a 
classical  scholar,  I  took  rank  as  number  two  —  there 
being  above  me  two  men  who  divided  number  one 
between  them. 

"  I  suppose  that  there  was  as  much  vice  in  college 
as  in  other  city  colleges,  but  I  was  never  brought 
into  contact  with  it  in  a  solitary  instance.  J  Three 
men  were  my  most  intimate  associates  —  John  Boh- 
len,  John  Clayton,  and  John  Neal  —  three  Johns; 
and  so  far  as  immoralities  were  concerned,  they  might 


34  AUSTIN   PHELPS. 

all  of  them  have  ranked  with  their  saintly  namesake. 
They  were  pure-minded  fellows.  I  never  heard  an 
oath  or  a  questionable  story  from  the  lips  of  either. 
Yet  at  that  time  they  were  all  young  men  of  the  world. 
Bohlen  became  afterwards  a  very  earnest  member  of 
the  Episcopal  Church,  and  having  inherited  a  large 
fortune,  he  had  great  influence  in  that  church.  He 
was  the  founder  of  the  '  Bohlen  Lectures '  in  Phila- 
delphia. Clayton  was  a  practising  lawyer  there  (since 
dead),  also  a  member  of  the  Episcopal  Church.  Neal 
became  a  professor  in  the  Medical  Department  of  the 
University,  and  had  a  large  practice  in  his  profession 
(dead).  The  influence  of  these  men  upon  me  was 
good,  and  only  good. 

"  It  was  under  the  preaching  of  Mr.  Barnes  that  I 
made  a  profession  of  religion,  at  the  age  of  eighteen 
years.  What  shall  I  say  of  that  momentous  period? 
To  this  day  it  is  a  mystery  to  me.  It  was  no  fault 
of  my  pastor,  or  of  my  parents,  that  I  went  through 
a  period  of  despair.  My  old  notion  of  conversion  as  a 
re-creation  of  moral  nature  caused  me  untold  misery. 
It  clung  to  me  like  Hugo's  devil-fish.  The  make  of 
my  mind  required  a  calm,  slow,  thoughtful  conver- 
sion, like  Baxter's.  Instead  of  that,  I  tried  to  force 
upon  myself  an  experience  like  Brainerd's  and  that 
of  the  elder  Edwards.  '  Edwards  on  the  Affections ' 
was  my  model.  And  because  that  ideal  of  a  change 
of  heart  was  not  in  me,  I  mourned  in  bitterness  of 
spirit.  I  read  all  the  theology  in  my  father's  library. 
My  own  theology  for  a  lifetime  was  formed  in  those 
throes  of  agony.  I  do  not  exaggerate.  For  nearly 
a  year  the  struggle  continued.  It  was  a  struggle 
against  nature.  After  joining  the  church  I  sought 
release  from  the  sacramental  vows.  .  .  . 


EARLY  MANHOOD.  35 

"  The  first  relief  I  obtained  was  from  Rev.  N.  W. 
Taylor,  of  New  Haven.  He  first  gave  me  a  glimpse 
of  a  theory  of  conversion  which  at  length  rid  me  of 
my  servitude  to  the  ideals  of  Brainerd,  Edwards,  and 
the  'Pilgrim's  Progress.'  But  full  deliverance  came 
in  the  only  way  in  which  it  was  possible  to  a  consti- 
tution like  mine,  —  through  the  slow  process  of  men- 
tal and  moral  growth.  I  have  ever  since  looked  with 
very  grave  doubts  of  their  value  upon  the  whole  class 
of  biographies  and  manuals  which  represent  conver- 
sion as  a  creation,  and  the  Christian  life  as  an  emotive 
ecstasy.  To  many  they  may  be  real,  but  they  have 
been  very  hurtful  to  me.  It  was  an  injury  that  I 
was  taught  by  them  to  exalt  an  emotive  experience 
above  that  of  a  will  to  serve  God.  If  I  know  any- 
thing of  'experimental  religion,'  it  is  in  the  form  of 
a  principle  of  consecration  to  God,  which  has  grown 
up  as  my  mind  has  grown.  I  have  never  had  an  hour 
of  ecstasy,  never  a  vision  or  a  dream.  If  I  am  a  child 
of  God,  I  am  sure  that  the  change  did  not  occur  at  the 
time  when  I  once  supposed  it  did.  Nor  do  I  know 
the  time  when.  I  suspect  that  filial  obedience  to  an 
earthly  father  is  often  the  medium  of  regeneration. 
Piety  is  character.  Like  other  developments  of  char- 
acter, it  is  a  growth.  To  this  simple,  unpretending 
end  all  my  experience  has  led  me.  I  look  upon  the 
old  frantic  despair  of  my  youth  as  a  revolt  of  my 
nature  against  a  false  ideal  of  a  soul's  relations 
to  God. 

"  That  experience  emphasized  in  me  the  theory  of 
revivals,  to  which  I  have  already  referred.  That 
these  agitations  of  the  popular  mind  are  often  the 
work  of  God,  I  do  not  doubt.     But  that  they  are 


LS 


36  AUSTIN  PHELPS. 

intrinsically  the  best  methods  of  growth  to  the  Church 
I  do  not  believe.  They  are  rather  a  condescension 
of  the  Spirit  of  God  to  weakness  and  vagaries  of  the 
human  spirit,  and  to  the  wild  freaks  of  the  human 
conscience.  Large  classes  of  mind,  and  these  the 
most  thoughtful  and  solid,  furnish  no  natural  mate- 
rial for  such  awakenings.  Our  youth  will  come 
under  a  broader  and  more  healthy  range  of  religious 
influences  when  the  Church  makes  less  of  revivals,  — 
talks  less  and  prays  less  about  them,  —  and  concen- 
trates its  thought  upon  the  simple  everyday  life  with 
God,  which  enters  into  common  affairs  in  even  and 
gentle  flow. 

"  Of  this  liberty  in  Christian  living  I  knew  noth- 
ing till  long  after  I  entered  the  University.  Looking 
back  now  to  that  dim  '  middle  age,'  I  can  see  that 
my  conscience  suffered  some  violence  in  its  struggles. 
It  was  benighted  and  had  to  wait  for  the  dawn.  At 
one  period  the  strife  within  me  assumed  the  distinct 
form  of  a  conflict  between  conscience  and  common 
sense.  Conscience  commanded  one  thing  and  lashed 
me  for  disobedience,  and  good  sense  commanded  the 
opposite.  Generally  conscience  gave  way.  This  was 
an  unnatural  contest.  The  real  truth  of  God  could 
never  have  instigated  it.  .  .  . 

"I  graduated  at  the  age  of  seventeen,  in  1837. 
Then  followed  a  year  of  historical  and  literary  read- 
ing under  the  direction  of  Professor  Reed,  a  most 
valuable  supplement  to  my  collegiate  course.  It  was 
during  and  after  that  year  that  the  religious  struggle 
above  referred  to  took  place.  When  it  had  in  some 
measure  subsided,  I  went  to  the  New  York  Seminary, 
where  I  studied  Hebrew  under  Dr.  Nordheimer  for 


EARLY  MANHOOD.  37 

several  months.  In  1839  I  became  a  member  of  the 
New  Haven  Seminary,  and  there  took  complete  notes 
of  Dr.  Taylor's  lectures.  At  that  time  I  accepted 
his  theology  with  implicit  trust.  I  have  outlived  it, 
in  part,  but  it  was  then  a  very  timely  help  to  me 
against  infidelity  and  despair.  If  he  had  not  thor- 
ough scholarship  he  had  marvellous  intuitions ;  and 
his  quickening  power  over  young  men  was  une- 
qualled by  anything  that  has  come  under  my  notice. 

"In  1840  I  was  licensed  to  preach  by  the  Third 
Presbytery  of  Philadelphia.  I  preached  my  first  ser- 
mon in  the  Old  Arch  Street  Church,  Philadelphia.  I 
was  then  twenty  years  and  three  months  old.  I  have 
never  ceased  to  regret  that  I  entered  the  pulpit  in 
such  a  juvenile  state  of  culture.  My  mind  was  in  a 
chaotic  state  of  growth.  My  opinions  were  preju- 
dices. I  was  utterly  unfit  to  assume  the  religious 
guidance  of  others.  My  own  judgment  declared  this, 
but  friends  thought  otherwise,  and  I  blundered  on 
to  my  destiny.  My  Presbytery  sent  me  an  admoni- 
tory letter,  advising  my  immediate  settlement  as  a 
pastor.  Albert  Barnes  was  the  only  man  who  voted 
against  it.  Dr.  Hawes  of  Hartford,  and  several  other 
clergymen,  —  my  father  included, — sent  me  the  same 
counsel.  Mr.  Barnes  and  Professor  Stuart  were  the 
only  two  men  who  strengthened  me  in  my  purpose 
to  spend  the  full  three  years  in  study,  which  are 
commonly  given  to  theological  preparation. 

"  From  the  first,  I  was  kindly  received  by  the 
churches.  Lenient  judgments  of  my  preaching  en- 
couraged me.  I  think  I  must  then  have  expended  a 
great  deal  of  nervous  vitality  in  my  elocution.  I 
cannot  otherwise  account  for  the  favorable  reception 


38  AUSTIN   PHELPS. 

I  met  with.  Overtures  were  made  to  me  from,"  — 
here  he  mentions  some  half-dozen  prominent  city 
Churches,  —  "all  of  which  I  declined,  for  the  sole 
reason  that  I  was  not  prepared  to  settle  anywhere. 

"In  March,  1841,  the  Pine  Street  Church,  Boston, 
invited  me  to  settle  with  them,  and  I  declined  for 
the  same  reason  as  before.  After  waiting  a  year, 
they  renewed  the  call,  and  I  accepted,  and  was  or- 
dained in  April,  1842.  I  may  mention  here,  in  token 
of  God's  great  kindness  to  me,  in  giving  me  the  con- 
fidence of  the  churches,  that,  in  the  course  of  the  first 
dozen  years  of  my  professional  life,  I  received  over- 
tures for  settlement  from  churches  in"  —  he  appends 
a  list  of  towns,  including  New  York,  Philadelphia, 
and  Boston ;  "  also  from  the  theological  seminaries  at 

and  to  fill  their  theological  chair.    With 

the  exception  of  the  last  two,  and  two  or  three  of 
the  others,  the  overtures  were  informal.  It  has  never 
been  my  way  to  encourage  formal  calls  to  a  change 
of  service,  unless  I  thought  it  probable  that  I  should 
accept  them.  I  name  them  here,  only  to  record  my 
thanks  to  God  that  the  Church  of  our  Lord  has  so 
uniformly  extended  to  me  a  kindly  hearing.  I  have 
never  had  to  wait  an  hour  for  something  to  do  in  her 
service. 

"  As  years  passed,  and  my  judgment  has  matured, 
I  have  found  it  impossible  to  look  back  upon  the 
years  I  spent  in  Boston  with  any  satisfaction.  My 
people  were  the  kindest  in  the  world.  Their  judg- 
ment of  my  service  was  lenient  in  the  extreme.  In 
character,  in  numbers,  and  in  social  rank,  they  were 
all  that  I  desired.  I  record  it  with  supreme  gratitude 
to  God,  that  I  had  the  affection  of  such  a  people, 


EARLY  MANHOOD.  39 

After  the  lapse  of  thirty  years,  their  faces  remain 
very  vivid  in  my  eye,  and  I  love  them.  I  can  ask  no 
more  attractive  service  in  heaven  than  the  privilege 
of  ministering  to  such  minds  —  why  may  I  not  say, 
to  those  very  men  and  women?  The  testimony  of 
some  of  them  on  their  death-beds,  to  the  good  they 
believed  they  had  received  from  my  words,  is  very 
precious  to  me.  God  forbid  that  I  should  undervalue 
anything  that  was  good  and  true  in  that  period  of 
my  life ! 

"  Still,  turning  to  my  own  side  of  the  reckoning,  as 
I  remember  it,  I  feel  only  sadness  and  self-reproach. 
My  mind  was  unformed,  my  spiritual  culture  almost 
infantile.  I  had  to  carry  on  my  work  for  others, 
alongside  of  and  under  the  dead  weight  of  the  strug- 
gles of  an  undisciplined  and  uneducated  mind  to 
work  its  way  to  intellectual  manhood.  My  ideas  of 
composition  were  crude  and  false.  My  theory  of 
preaching  was  for  a  time  still  more  so.  That  any- 
body can  have  been  really  benefited  b}r  my  preaching 
is  inexplicable  to  me.  I  cannot  see  the  crevices 
through  which  the  blessing  could  have  found  its 
way.  It  was  a  cruel  thing  to  set  so  juvenile  a  mind 
over  such  a  people  in  a  Christian  pulpit.  The  first 
night  after  my  ordination  I  spent  in  mute  despair,  so 
profoundly  sensible  was  I  of  my  intellectual  unfitness 
for  my  work.  Yet  I  had  not  religious  culture  enough 
to  make  that  sense  of  unfitness  a  means  of  trust  in 
God,  so  as  to  get  repose  in  my  work  from  that  source. 
I  had  no  repose  in  it.  I  found  only  the  struggles  of 
a  wounded  spirit,  which  could  find  rest  nowhere. 
My  experience  there  is  a  very  sad  proof  of  the  need 
of  well-educated  mind  in  the  pulpit.     Without  some 


40  AUSTIN  PHELPS. 

good  degree  of  thorough  education,  which  shall  give 
a  man  confidence  in  his  own  mental  operations, 
nothing  but  ignorance  of  himself  and  of  his  work 
can  give  him  religious  confidence.  He  is  exposed  to 
fanaticism  of  the  wildest  sort,  as  the  only  refuge 
open  to  him  from  his  own  self-distrust. 

"I  was  saved  from  that  extreme,  but  my  intel- 
lectual and  my  religious  culture  were  at  open  war 
with  each  other.  My  conscience  condemned  what 
my  intellect  craved,  and  my  intellectual  aspirations 
crushed  my  conscientious  convictions.  Repose  in  my 
work  was  impossible.  My  sermons  were  —  what  they 
were.  Three  hundred  of  them  I  afterwards  burned. 
Those  which  were  most  useful  to  nry  people  were 
those  which  I  elaborated  least. 

"  My  removal  from  Boston  to  Andover  was  a  revo- 
lutionary change  for  me.  I  had  never  anticipated  it, 
nor  were  my  tastes  and  training  adapted  to  the  new 
duties.  My  whole  being  was  adjusted  to  the  duties 
of  the  pulpit.  I  revered  them  as  I  did  those  of  no 
other  profession.  Pastoral  life  ran  in  my  life-blood. 
It  was  an  inheritance  from  my  honored  father,  whose 
success  in  it  bordered  upon  inspiration.  I  do  not 
remember  ever  to  have  had  the  extravagant  estimate 
of  a  professorship  of  anything,  as  compared  with  the 
pastoral  office,  which  is  common  among  the  clergy. 
My  later  wisdom  has  not  essentially  changed  my 
early  convictions  on  this  subject. 

"  It  was  not  that  I  was  conscious  of  any  peculiar 
genius  for  pastoral  duties.  On  the  contrary,  some  of 
them  were  a  drudgery  to  me.  The  habit  of  personal 
conference  with  men  on  the  subject  of  religion  was 
never  attractive.     I  shrunk  from  it  with  exceeding 


EARLY  MANHOOD.  41 

distaste.  I  was  not  expert  in  it,  and  knew  that  I  was 
not.  I  whipped  myself  into  it  whenever  I  attempted 
it.  My  chief  usefulness  in  pastoral  service,  so  far  as 
I  could  judge  of  it,  was  not  there,  but  in  the  pulpit. 
I  think  now  that  I  may  have  underrated  myself  in 
respect  to  the  private  ministrations  of  a  pastor.  My 
old  people  have  spoken  to  me  of  them  as  if  they  were 
not  a  waste.  But  I  do  not  clearly  know  what  they 
mean  by  such  commendations.  Nothing  in  my  remem- 
bered consciousness  sustains  them. 

"  The  thing  which  bound  me  to  the  pastoral  office 
was  a  downright  reverence  for  it  as  the  first  of  all 
human  avocations,  with  no  reference  to  any  success 
of  my  own  in  it.  Professorship  and  collegiate  presi- 
dencies never  had,  to  my  vision,  the  glamour  which 
they  have  in  public  opinion. 

"I  therefore  received  the  offer  of  service  at 
Andover  with  immense  surprise.  I  felt  no  preposses- 
sions in  its  favor.  I  had  never  sought  the  office.  So 
far  as  I  know,  no  friend  of  mine  ever  sought  it  for 
me.  Professor  Stuart,  who  was  the  only  man  who 
would  naturally  interest  himself  in  my  election,  has 
been  heard  to  say  that  he  had  no  hand  in  it  whatever. 
I  have  always  supposed  that  it  came  about  in  this 
manner,  viz. :  — 

"  The  pastors  of  Boston  had  delivered,  in  the 
winter  of  1841-2,  a  series  of  doctrinal  discourses  in 
the  Old  South  Church,  each  preaching  on  the  subject 
assigned  to  him.  The  subject  which  had  fallen  to  my 
lot  was  that  of  the  ;  Sovereignty  of  God  as  related  to 
the  Responsibility  of  Man  in  the  Work  of  Salvation.' 
I  did  the  best  I  could  with  a  theme  so  vast  and  so 
complicated.     I  had  a  packed  audience.     Among  my 


42  AUSTIN   PHELPS. 

hearers  were  Ex-Governor  Armstrong  and  the  Hon. 
William  J.  Hubbard,  two  of  the  Andover  Board  of 
Trustees,  who  happened  then  to  be  desperately  at 
their  wits'  end  in  search  for  a  successor  to  Professor 
Park  in  the  Professorship  of  Homiletics.  My  sermon 
at  the  Old  South  impressed  those  two  men  very 
favorably.  Governor  Armstrong  said  to  Mr.  Hub- 
bard :  '  We  have  found  our  professor  for  Andover. 
There  was  no  nonsense  about  that  sermon.  A  man 
who  can  preach  it  can  teach  others  how  to  do  it.' 

"  My  name  was  thus  carried  to  the  conclave  of 
the  Andover  Trustees.  They  had  recently  elected 
Dr.  Hopkins  of  Williams  College,  but  knowing  quite 
well  that  he  would  not  accept  the  office.  Rev.  R.  S. 
Storrs,  D.D.,  of  Brooklyn,  was  a  favorite  candidate 
with  some  of  the  Board,  but  his  acceptance,  too,  was 
beyond  hope.  I  have  been  told  that  the  name  with 
which  mine  came  into  special  competition  was  that 

of  Professor  ,  now  of  New  York.     He  was  in 

reality  by  far  the  better  qualified  man  of  the  two. 

"  None  of  my  friends  understood  the  state  of  my 
mind  on  the  subject  of  the  scholastic  office.  Every- 
body assumed  that  I  should  accept.  It  was  a  fore- 
gone conclusion.  I  could  get  no  help  from  advisers, 
in  deciding  the  question,  because  they  all  assumed 
that  I  needed  none.  My  apparent  doubts  appeared 
to  them  a  coy  sport  with  an  offer  which  secretly  I 
meant  to  accede  to.  I  was  in  no  such  state  of  mind 
about  it.  My  doubts  were  real,  and  my  adverse  pref- 
erences strong.  I  delayed  nearly  two  months  in 
making  up  my  mind.  The  chairman  of  the  Com- 
mittee of  Election  said  to  me  at  last :  '  What  are  you 
waiting  for?     I  do  not  see   what  ground  you  can 


EARLY  MANHOOD.  43 

have  for  an  hour's  doubt.'  So  felt  all  my  friends. 
It  was  a  grief  to  me  that  they  would  give  me  no  aid. 
The  gist  of  all  they  had  to  say  to  me  was,  '  Go  ?  Of 
course  you  will  go.' 

"  Not  so  spoke  my  own  judgment  and  conscience. 
I  believed  in  my  heart  that  I  was  made  for  the  pulpit, 
and  nothing  else.  I  felt  no  inclinations  whatever  to 
the  professor's  chair.  When,  at  my  graduation  in  col- 
lege, my  president  had  proposed  to  me  to  study  for  a 
chair  in  the  University,  I  did  not  look  at  the  proposal 
one  minute.  Something,  I  remember,  seemed  to  lay 
a  prohibitory  hand  upon  me,  and  say, '  Not  that !  Not 
that ! '  I  saw  neither  usefulness  nor  honor  in  pro- 
fessional duty,  as  compared  with  that  of  the  pulpit. 
My  grand  ideals  of  the  greatest  men  were  not 
chiefly  statesmen,  nor  scholars,  nor  philosophers,  but 
preachers.  I  record  this  now,  not  to  argue  the  ab- 
stract question,  but  only  as  a  fact  in  my  experience 
at  that  revolutionary  juncture  in  my  life.  I  knew 
that  the  change,  if  made,  would  never  be  reversed. 
I  should  never  return  to  the  pulpit,  if  I  once  aban- 
doned it.  It  was  like  giving  up  one's  first  and  only 
love,  when  the  glamour  of  it  was  fresh  and  sovereign 
in  its  sway  over  the  imagination.  .  .  .  The  course  of 
some  young  men  in  accepting  a  pastoral  charge  beneath 
their  ability,  and  then  waiting  and  watching  for  a  pro- 
fessorship, seemed  to  me  supremely  puerile.  After  six 
weeks  of  distressing  doubt  I  was  no  nearer  a  decision 
than  at  first.  When  I  had  written  my  affirmative 
letter  to  the  Committee,  and  had  gone  in  person  to 
Governor  Armstrong's  door  to  deliver  it,  I  backed  down 
the  steps,  before  putting  my  hand  to  the  bell,  and 
walked  back  and  forth,  hoping  for  some  providential 


44  AUSTIN   PHELPS. 

indication  which  would  turn  the  scale  the  other  way. 
But  I  saw  no  cross  in  the  sky ;  I  heard  no  voice  in 
the  air.  The  plain  truth  is  that  I  never  wanted  to  be 
a  professor  at  Andover,  or  anywhere.  I  wanted  to 
stay  with  my  plain  people.  I  loved  them  ;  I  revered 
my  pulpit  as  I  did  no  other  spot  on  earth ;  I  wanted 
to  abide  there  and  lay  my  bones  with  those  of  the 
men  and  women  who  had  chosen  me  as  their  spiritual 
guide.  I  made  the  great  sacrifice  of  my  life  in  de- 
ciding to  accept  the  call  to  Andover.  I  felt  so  then  ; 
I  feel  so  now ;  I  have  never  seen  the  hour  when  the 
change  did  not  seem  to  me  a  retreat  on  the  inarch  of 
life. 

"  Why,  then,  did  I  make  the  change  ?  One  word 
answers  the  question,  —  Health.  I  knew  that  I  could 
not  much  longer  stand  the  strain  of  the  pastorate  in 
Boston.  Though  up  to  that  time  I  had  scarcely  had 
an  invalid  day,  yet  I  felt  it  coming.  The  break-down 
could  not  be  far  off.  I  saw  that  in  scholastic  retire- 
ment I  could  work  longer  and  more  efficiently  than 
in  a  pulpit  which  so  exhausted  my  nervous  vitality. 
If  I  could  have  had  half  the  confidence  in  my  physi- 
cal endurance  that  I  had  in  the  relative  value  of  ser- 
vice in  the  pulpit,  I  should  never  have  left  it  for  any 
other  profession.  My  judgment  of  my  prospects  at 
that  time  is  the  same  now  as  then.  Its  accuracy  as 
a  foresight  of  coming  events  is  indicated  by  the  fact 
that  on  the  morning  of  the  day  on  which  the  Council 
was  called  for  my  dismission  from  Boston,  I  woke 
from  a  sound  sleep  with  a  disease  of  one  eye,  from 
which  I  did  not  recover  for  four  years.  It  is  con- 
firmed by  the  fact  that  since  that  time,  with  all  the 
sanitary  helps  of  professional  life  and  a  country  resi- 


EARLY  MANHOOD.  45 

dence,  I  have  had  more  than  twenty  years  of  infirm 
health,  followed  by  premature  retirement  from  profes- 
sional service.  My  experience  at  that  critical  juncture 
was  a  conflict  of  judgment  and  conscience  respect- 
ing usefulness  and  duty  in  the  abstract,  with  the 
certain  prescience  of  ill  health  in  the  near  future. 

"  My  convictions,  confirmed  by  my  own  experience 
and  all  my  observation  of  the  several  departments  of 
clerical  service,  are  such  that,  with  few  and  peculiar 
exceptions,  I  have  never  been  able  to  advise  a  young 
man  to  surrender  the  pulpit  for  a  professor's  chair, 
other  things  being  equal.  That  the  common  opinion 
of  the  relative  dignity  of  the  two  positions  is  errone- 
ous, I  am  as  sure  as  I  can  be  of  anything  of  like 
nature." 


CHAPTER  IV. 
marriage;  and  the  boston  parish. 

Here  the  record  breaks.  Whether  the  characteris- 
tic objection  to  discussing  himself  made  too  heavy  a 
burden  of  that  autobiographic  reverie  in  which  so 
many  minds  find  holiday,  or  whether  the  advance  of 
physical  suffering  put  an  end  to  these  notes  from  sheer 
weariness,  it  is  impossible  to  tell.  The  regret  that  the 
manuscript  did  not  cover  that  later  and  most  pathetic 
period  of  experience  which  would  teach  us  how  a 
man  in  the  prime  of  his  powers  bears  it  to  be  stricken 
from  their  use,  is  as  vain  as  the  effort  to  break  the 
unfathomable  silence,  or  ask  the  reason  why.  Ours 
is  only  to  take  up  the  broken  skein,  disentangle  the 
knot,  and  simplify  as  well  as  we  can  the  pattern  of 
a  story  which  has  a  certain  delusive  character  not  to 
be  expected  of  it  at  first  sight.  It  would  seem  an 
easy  matter  to  relate  the  events  of  a  devout  life  which 
had  not  a  mystery,  hardly  a  secret  in  it.  In  truth, 
the  sources  of  knowledge,  covering  some  of  the  most 
interesting  portions  of  his  experience,  are  so  few  and 
vague,  that  the  pen  almost  falls  in  discouragement 
before  them. 

Not  one  member  of  his  father's  family  is  now  liv- 
ing. Most  of  his  near  friends  —  of  intimates  he  had 
so  few  as  to  deepen  the  preciousness  of  his  friend- 
ship —  are   dead.      Groping    among   the   tombs   for 

46 


MARRIAGE;    AND   THE   PARISH.  47 

glimpses  of  his  early  life,  certain  winged  shadows 
flap  us  lightly  in  the  face,  and  flit  away  —  whither  ? 
It  seems  as  if  a  dead  man  would  speak,  if  ever,  when 
the  office  of  giving  his  personal  history  to  the  world 
has  been  entrusted  to  living  hands. 

So  much  as  this  at  least  we  know :  beyond  all  the 
delusions  of  love  or  the  enhancement  of  time,  with- 
out question  or  exaggeration,  it  is  true  that  he  was 
a  child  almost  without  a  fault,  a  youth  almost  with- 
out a  spot.  In  fact,  he  was  so  blameless  that  one 
feels  a  certain  compassion  for  this  unnatural  superi- 
ority of  character  at  an  age  when  it  is  natural  to  be 
naughty.  What  must  it  have  meant  of  moral  soli- 
tude, what  must  it  have  signified  of  spiritual  sensi- 
tiveness, to  be  so  little,  and  yet  so  large ;  so  young, 
and  yet  so  old ! 

His  old  schoolmate  and  life-long  friend,  Bishop 
Cleveland  Coxe,  writes  of  him  :  — 

"  I  wish  I  had  time  to  put  on  paper  all  I  could  say 
of  your  most  honoured  father.  ...  I  loved  and  appre- 
ciated him  heartily.  ...  He  and  I  were  '  rivals '  in 
Dr.  Dewey's  School,  Pittsfield,  a.d.  1828-29,  in  the 
matter  of  elocution  and  composition.  Of  course  he 
beat  me.  A  pale,  thin,  delicate  little  fellow,  with 
fire  too  much  for  his  physical  power,  I  thought.  All 
that  was  good  and  lovely  I  could  say  about  him." 

His  father  often  said  of  him :  "  Austin  never  was 
a  child  like  other  children.     He  was  born  a  man." 

His  only  brother  (who  survived  him  but  a  few 
months),  in  one  of  the  last  letters  which  he  was  able 
to  write,  said :  "  When  father  was  in  his  last  illness, 
he  called  again  and  again  for  '  the  son  who  never  did 
wrong.' " 


48  AUSTIN   PHELPS. 

It  is  well  to  think  that  the  theological  torments, 
the  throes  of  the  too  delicate  conscience,  the  death 
of  the  little  sister,  the  unboyish  anguish  of  sensibility 
which  at  once  created  sufferings  and  enhanced  those 
that  already  existed,  were  shadows  brightened  by 
their  own  light ;  that  the  inherent  tenderness  which 
quivers  so  easily  into  pain  had  its  own  correlative 
delights;  that  the  beautiful  mother,  who  sang  on 
Sunday  nights  like  an  angel,  and  never  scolded 
week-days  like  a  woman,  knew,  at  least,  how  to 
"  mother,"  if  not  to  understand,  her  first-born  boy ; 
and  that  the  adoration  in  which  lie  held  her  like  a 
Madonna  to  his  last  hours,  and  the  fact  that  she  did 
undoubtedly  deserve  it,  were  sources  of  comfort  to 
the  lad. 

Too  early  he  left  her.  While  yet  a  child,  he  was 
thoroughly  fitted  to  enter  any  college  existing  in  his 
day.  The  standards  have  changed,  it  is  easy  to  say. 
But  even  as  they  stood  then,  what  significance  in 
the  fact !  His  own  review  of  the  situation  is  more 
pungent  than  any  guess  at  it. 

He  has  omitted  to  notice  all  reference  to  the  cor- 
roding economies  which  the  minister's  son  was  ex- 
pected  in  those  days  to  practise  at  college,  and  which 
a  conscientious  youth  like  this  one  would  be  sure  to 
overdo.  No  thoughtless  demand  upon  the  father's 
scanty  purse  came  from  the  boy  "who  never  was  a 
child."  It  might  have  been  better  if  there  had.  The 
college  club,  where  rice  (boiled,  or  half-boiled,  as  luck 
had  it)  formed  the  sole  staple  of  too  many  a  meal, 
was  a  poor  place  for  a  growing  lad  with  a  forehead 
like  his.  He  has  been  heard  in  later  life  mildly  to 
refer  to  the  proportion  of  salt  pork  on  which  he  was 


MARRIAGE;   AND   THE   TARISH. 


49 


fed  in  boyhood.  But  lie  always  added  quickly :  "  My 
father  did  not  understand.  He  was  a  little  differently 
constituted.     He  was  perfectly  well.  ...     He  was  not 

to  blame." 

We  laugh  at  these  old-fashioned  deprivations, — 
they  had  their  funny  side,  — but  there  was  a  deal  of 
unrecorded  heroism  in  the  patience  with  which  such 
silent,  unexacting  boys  bore  them. 

It  is  enough  to  say  of  this  student's  educational 
experience  that  he  lived  through  it,  and  left  it  with 
the  first  honors  of  his  class ;  and  so,  pushed  to  the 
front  a  decade  too  soon,  he  entered  upon  a  man's 
most  solemn  task  when  he  should  have  been  still 
serving  moral  apprenticeship  in  a  boy's  irresponsi- 
bility. 

At  twelve  (as  we  have  seen),  ready  for  college ; 
at  thirteen,  matriculated;  at  seventeen,  graduated; 
at  twenty,  having  finished  his  post-graduate  course 
and  licensed  to  preach,  — thus  open  the  early  chap- 
ters of  one  of  the  most  ardent  lives  that  have  con- 
secrated themselves  to  the  mission  of  a  Christian 
preacher  in  this  country. 

A  small  portrait  in  water  color  by  Staigg  gave  the 
young  preacher  of  this  time  to  us  with  successful 
vividness.  The  face  —  delicate  in  coloring,  delicate 
in  the  lines  of  the  lip,  delicate  in  all  those  lines 
and  contours  where  any  hidden  coarseness  or  rude- 
ness of  nature  would  be  sure  to  tell  with  the  terrible 
frankness  that  no  amount  of  culture  can  silence  — 
looks,  nevertheless,  with  an  almost  startling  power, 
from  a  forehead  marked  and  full,  and  strongly  devel- 
oped above  the  brows ;  the  eyes  are  blue,  bright,  and 
"look  straight  on"  ;  they  have  a  firm  directness  and 


50  AUSTIN   PHELPS. 

fearlessness,  an  expression  which  seems  to  scorn  his 
own  youth,  yet  lightly  enough,  as  if  it  were  a  fact 
hardly  worth  that  trouble.  The  intensity  of  the  face 
is  marked ;  its  consciousness  of  responsibility  is  almost 
stern  ;  it  might  pass  for  an  imaginative  sketch  of  the 
Future  in  the  masculine  type ;  yet  one  believes  that 
it  might  melt  into  a  sunbeam  of  tenderness  or  play- 
fulness at  the  right  touch. 

This  sketch  of  a  sketch,  alas !  can  be  only  drawn 
from  memory,  for  the  beautiful  portrait  set  in  the 
large  gold  locket  long  worn  by  the  wife  of  his  youth, 
and  always  treasured  by  his  family,  was  stolen  from 
his  house  by  burglars  a  few  years  ago.  Nothing 
exists  which  can  replace  it.  One  wonders  sometimes 
how  these  gentlemen  of  the  light  fingers  and  easy 
consciences  may  like  the  look  of  those  grave  young 
eyes.  Men  of  that  calling  are  by  no  means  lost  to 
the  appreciation  of  such  impressions.  Perhaps  they 
may  have  turned  the  face  to  the  wall,  as  in  one  in- 
stance known  to  the  writer,  they  did  so  dispose,  in  a 
robbed  house,  of  a  little  bust  of  Guido's  Christ. 

At  the  age  of  twenty-one,  Mr.  Phelps  accepted  the 
call  to  the  Pine  Street  Church  of  Boston,  —  his  first 
and  only  pastorate.  And  here  the  boy  who  "was  born 
a  man  "  assumed,  and  for  six  years  successfully  sus- 
tained, the  exhausting  demands  of  a  city  parish,  which 
other  men,  even  though  of  marked  ability,  do  not 
undertake  until  years  have  given  them  the  passport 
to  such  responsibilities,  and  experience  the  materials 
for  supporting  them.  But  the  boy  was  man  enough 
to  comprehend  his  position  perfectly.  It  is  with  re- 
spect as  well  as  compassion  that  we  read  in  his  own 
words  how  he  "  spent  the  night  before  his  ordination 


MARRIAGE;   AND   THE   PARISH.  51 

in  mute  misery,"  at  his  consciousness  of  his  "own 
unfitness  to  be  the  spiritual  leader  of  men." 

It  is  pleasant  to  know  that  this  spiritual  anguish 
was  at  least  lightened  by  the  consummation  of  a  deep 
and  fortunate  human  love. 

While  in  Andover  as  a  student  in  the  Seminary, 
Mr.  Phelps  had  met  the  eldest  daughter  of  Professor 
Moses  Stuart.  The  home  of  the  distinguished  Bibli- 
cal scholar  was  about  as  untheological  and  merry  as 
any  eminent  home  that  ever  was  turned  topsy-turvy 
by  seven  lively  children,  who  thought  their  own  pref- 
erences quite  as  important  as  a  Hebrew  education, 
and  a  good  frolic  more  to  the  purpose  than  the  new 
German  lexicon  which  the  head  of  the  family  was 
the  first  to  introduce  into  this  country.  The  schol- 
arly father  might  frown  from  the  study.  The  sweet 
invalid  mother  might  mildly  protest  from  her  sick- 
room. But  the  young  people  of  that  family  knew 
what  a  good  time  was,  and  had  it  when  they  wanted 
it.  The  Professor's  parlors  were  favorite  sources  of 
entertainment  to  the  sedate  young  men  of  theologi- 
cal inclinations  ;  and  the  Professor's  daughters  —  four 
in  number  —  were  among  the  sirens  of  Andover  Hill 
who  beguiled  the  devout  mind  from  Justification  by 
Faith  to  what  they  called  "justifiable  recreation." 

The  eldest  daughter  had  a  vein  of  gravity  in  her 
vivacity  which  must  have  early  attracted  the  too 
grave  young  student.  She  could  understand  him 
while  she  laughed  with  him,  or  even  laughed  at  him ; 
her  cheerfulness  was  good  for  him  ;  her  own  intensity 
and  intellectuality  affiliated  with  his ;  they  loved  — 
and  considered  their  love  thoughtfully,  after  the  fash- 
ion of  their  people  and  their  times  —  and  decided, 


52  AUSTIN   PHELPS. 

after  the  fashion  of  all  people  and  all  times,  to  spend 
their  lives  together.  They  were  married  in  her 
father's  house  on  a  September  day  of  1842,  and  made 
their  home  at  once  in  Boston. 

In  the  parsonage  in  Harrison  Avenue,  long  since 
given  over  to  the  Philistines,  six  busy,  blessed  years 
followed.  Elizabeth  Stuart  had  been  a  dignified  girl, 
and  she  was  a  royal  wife.  "  To  the  day  of  her  death 
she  was  as  much  a  queen  to  me  as  she  was  the  day 
I  married  her,"  he  said  in  one  of  those  rare  moments 
of  confidence  which  were  given  only  to  a  rare  confi- 
dante. Neither  time  nor  change  touched  this  aureola 
of  youth  and  the  first  allegiance  of  a  chivalric  hom- 
age which  few  women  can  command,  and  fewer  men 
render.  Something  of  Mrs.  Phelps's  strong  individ- 
uality appeared  in  her  queenly  carriage  and  finely 
poised  head.  Many  called  her  a  handsome  woman ; 
others  withheld  the  adjective.  The  old  daguerreo- 
types bear  it  out  easily ;  but  these  were  taken  before 
care  and  illness  had  touched  a  face  whose  beauty  de- 
pended largely  upon  its  mobility  of  expression,  and 
upon  the  color  and  verve  which  health  and  happiness 
must  supply. 

It  has  been  somewhat  superficially  averred  that 
everybody's  mother  is  a  remarkable  woman.  Not  to 
linger  to  dispute  a  quite  disputable  assertion,  it  may 
at  least  be  said  that  the  memories  of  a  child  left 
motherless  at  eight  years  are  not  likely  to  be  pro- 
nounced enough  to  have  much  value  as  first-hand  tes- 
timony either  way ;  and  that  the  impressions  rather 
coolly  and  dispassionately  formed  from  objective  data 
have  something  which  may  be  called  a  disinterested- 
ness of  their  own.     I  do  not  think  that  any  one  who 


MARRIAGE;    AND   THE   PARISH.  53 

knew  the  wife  of  Mr.  Phelps's  youth  will  incline  to 
deny  that  she  was  brilliantly  adapted  to  it  and  to  him. 
Pegasus  makes  a  fine  yoke-fellow  sometimes,  proverbs 
to  the  contrary,  notwithstanding.  Bright  blood  sets 
itself  to  dull  duty  with  a  throbbing  nerve.  The 
genius  which  was  in  due  time  to  find  a  world-wide 
expression  and  welcome  in  "  The  Sunny  Side,"  gave 
itself  in  those  early  years  of  wifehood  and  mother- 
hood utterly  to  the  sweet  ingenuities  of  love.  Few 
women  can  have  brooded  over  a  happier  home.  She 
was  a  home-maker  born.  She  poured  the  opulence  of 
her  deep  nature  right  royally  and  gladly  into  that 
one  channel  of  womanly  tenderness.  The  keen  intel- 
lect which  could  intelligently  criticise  the  young 
preacher's  sermon  on  Saturday  night  was  quite  able 
to  discover  ways  of  amusing  and  resting  him  on  Mon- 
day morning ;  and  in  the  inventions  of  little  pleasures 
and  ready  hopes  she  was  an  adept.  Domestic  trouble 
and  fret  she  knew  how  to  carry  alone.  Home  com- 
fort she  sprang  to  offer  him  as  the  sunshine  sprang 
into  the  dark  city  rooms  after  a  cloudy  day.  Her 
nature  was  rich  in  expedients,  in  courage,  in  imagina- 
tion, and  in  that  womanly  common  sense  whose  ab- 
sence or  presence  makes  the  creative  intellect  either 
a  torment  or  a  blessing  to  live  with.  Marriage  under 
such  conditions  becomes  no  idle  or  leisurely  dream. 
To  the  usual  struggle,  to  the  common  human  battle, 
is  added  a  fine,  high  fever  of  aspiration,  a  silent  deter- 
mination to  achieve  a  supreme  result,  to  "be  what 
woman  never  was  before,"  and  to  do  "  what  love  has 
never  done."  Under  the  movement  of  a  nature  like 
hers  a  woman  may  make  a  man  divinely  happy.  But 
she  may  die  in  trying  to  do  so, 


54  AUSTIN   PHELPS. 

In  Boston  their  first  child,  a  daughter,  was  born ; 
and  parentage  came,  as  everything  else  came  into 
that  household,  with  a  conscientiousness  so  devout 
as  to  tip  the  scale  between  the  privilege  and  the 
responsibility  somewhat  to  the  graver  side. 

That  matchless  fatherliness  in  Professor  Phelps,  of 
which  we  shall  have  occasion  later  to  speak  fully, 
began  with  characteristic  sensibility.  From  the  first 
hour  when  the  young  father  watched  by  the  side  of 
the  crying  baby,  authoritatively  removed  to  his  care 
that  the  mother  might  have  a  chance  of  rest,  and 
when  he  lay  in  sleepless  sorrow  compassionating  the 
week-old  infant  "because  she  was  so  homely,"  and 
seemed  "  so  unhappy,"  to  the  last  "  God  bless  you,  my 
child  !  "  —  the  last  words  written  by  the  dying  hand, 
—  his  sense  of  duty  to  family  ties  was  something  su- 
preme. 

It  is  to  be  feared  that  they  weighed  a  little  heavily 
upon  his  nerves  in  those  early  years  of  professional 
struggle  and  private  care  ;  but  the  wear  and  tear  of 
natures  like  his,  in  a  life  like  his,  is  as  unavoidable 
as  the  friction  of  steel  machinery  upon  silk  caught 
within  the  wheels. 

Meanwhile  the  young  pastor  was  setting  his  shoul- 
der to  those  other  wheels  which  move  "the  first 
parish"  up  the  hill  of  difficulty;  and  his  success  as 
much  surpassed  his  sober  expectation  as  it  probably 
did  surpass  his  comprehension.  Too  modest  ever  to 
rate  himself  as  others  rated  him,  too  severely  consci- 
entious ever  to  indulge  himself  with  an  achieved 
ideal,  he  gave  himself  to  his  people  utterly.  He  was 
a  careful  pastor.  It  is  not  known  that  he  suffered 
his  tastes  —  which  set  strongly  toward  the  intellec- 


MARRIAGE;    AND    THE    PARISH.  55 

tual  side  of  his  mission,  his  duty  as  a  preacher,  his 
privilege  as  a  student  —  to  deflect  his  career  from  its 
pastoral  orbit.  The  homes  of  his  people  knew  him, 
and  their  hearts  cherished  him.  Their  anxieties,  their 
temptations,  their  bereavements,  never  found  the 
young  scholar  too  absorbed  to  give  all  that  his 
youth  could  render  of  the  sacred  sympathy  of  the 
office  which  it  was  born  in  his  blood  to  set  above 
every  other  on  the  earth. 

To  this  day,  after  forty-three  years  of  separation, 
such  of  the  old  Pine  Street  Church  as  are  left  in  the 
land  of  the  living  to  mourn  his  departure  from  it, 
hold  his  memory  in  the  affectionate  pride  of  an  aged 
and  scattered  people,  as  if  but  yesterday  bereaved 
of  him. 

An  interesting  incident  comes  to  us  in  the  story  of  a 
member  of  the  Pine  Street  Church  who  had  "  fallen 
away  "  into  rationalism,  or  transcendentalism,  or  some 
other  kind  of  "  ism,"  not  consistent  with  any  pre- 
tension to  a  Christian  faith  ;  and  the  delinquent,  after 
the  fashion  of  the  times,  was  summoned  by  the  eccle- 
siastical law  of  his  sect,  before  the  church  for  exami- 
nation and  discipline. 

The  offender  appeared  upon  the  appointed  evening, 
bringing  with  him,  as  by  the  Congregational  polity 
allowed,  his  own  chosen  counsel  to  defend  his  case. 
The  dismay  of  that  comfortable  Orthodox  committee 
may  be  imagined,  when  the  counsel  of  the  skeptic 
proved  to  be  none  other  than  Wendell  Phillips. 

Gray-headed  deacons  shivered  in  their  pews,  and 
cast  quavering  glances  at  their  twenty-one-year-old 
pastor.  What  would  happen  ?  What  could  happen  ? 
Visions  of  impending  ecclesiastical  chagrin  blurred 


56  AUSTIN   PHELPS. 

before  keen  eyes  that  had  believed  themselves  to  have 
discerned  the  qualities  of  his  position  in  this  boy, 
their  spiritual  leader.  There  was  a  breathless  mo- 
ment in  the  old  vestry  of  Pine  Street  Church. 

In  that  moment  the  scholarly  orator  of  a  national 
reputation  and  the  youth  of  a  year's  experience  in 
the  pastorate  of  a  quiet  church  regarded  each  other. 
Then  the  young  pastor  spoke  —  gently,  with  dignity, 
without  embarrassment  or  hesitation.  He  turned  to 
the  erring  brother. 

"  Mr.    ,"    he   said    quietly,    "  our   business   is 

with  yourself,  not  with  your  friend."  Mr.  Phillips 
made  two  or  three  attempts  to  be  heard ;  then  bowed 
silently,  and  retreated  from  the  field  as  courteously 
as  he  had  been  warned  from  it.  Since,  by  the  eccle- 
siastical law,  the  counsel  of  an  offending  member 
must  be  himself  a  believer  of  sound  position  in  a 
Christian  church,  Mr.  Phelps  was  as  just  as  he  was 
adroit.  It  was  said  that  Mr.  Phillips  afterward  paid 
a  manly  tribute  to  the  self-possession  of  the  young 
clergyman. 

"  The  most  remarkable  trait  in  Mr.  Phelps,"  says 
Mr.  Charles  H.  Warner  of  Boston,  one  of  his  former 
deacons,  and  for  life  his  loving  friend,  "  the  most 
striking  thing  about  him  was  his  maturity.  He  was 
not  like  other  young  men.  His  maturity  and  his 
gravity,  —  these  are  the  points  I  remember  most 
vividly  about  those  years.  He  was  always  in  earnest 
about  everything ;  always  took  the  serious  view  of  it." 

Mr.  Warner  further  says :  "  His  connection  with 
the  Pine  Street  Church  was  a  very  happy  one,  and 
the  people  were  warmly  attached  to  him.  His  man- 
ner in  the  pulpit,  though  grave  and  dignified,  was 


MARRIAGE;   AND   THE   PARISH.  57 

pleasant  and  attractive,  and  his  sermons  indicated  a 
maturity  of  thought  much  beyond  his  years.  He 
was  in  no  sense  a  sensational  preacher,  but  solemn 
and  earnest. 

"  I  do  not  believe  he  ever  preached  a  hastily  pre- 
pared sermon." 

Mr.  Warner  recalls  also  an  incident  connected 
with  a  revival  in  the  church,  which  bears  out  the 
theories  expressed  by  Mr.  Phelps  elsewhere. 

The  excitement  had  waxed  to  a  pitch  where  the 
young  pastor  thought  proper  to  check  it.  Without 
hesitation  he  did  so.  The  church,  unused  to  such  a 
view  of  the  prevailing  fashions  of  emotional  excess 
in  religious  culture,  sent  a  delegation  to  the  minister 
to  remonstrate  with  him.  He  listened  quietly,  but 
wavered  not  an  inch.  The  case  was  argued,  but  he 
remained  firm.  After  the  delegation  had  talked  itself 
out,  the  pastor  explained  his  own  position  at  length, 
in  his  own  quiet  and  painstaking  way.  The  delega- 
tion went  away  acquiescent,  if  not  convinced.  He 
had  no  more  suggestions  on  that  point  from  his  peo- 
ple, but  trained  their  "  revivals  of  religion  "  after  his 
own  rational  and  natural  methods. 

Mr.  Warner  adds  :  "  I  do  not  think  your  father 
would  have  been  called  a  popular  preacher,  but  his 
sermons  were  thoughtful,  spiritual,  and  helpful.  '  I 
have  heard  the  best  sermon  that  has  been  preached 
in  Boston  to-day,'  was  the  remark  of  a  distinguished 
preacher  (Professor  Park)  who  was  present  one  Sun- 
day morning. 

"  I  do  not  think  his  people  ever  knew  how  painful 
to  him  was  his  separation  from  them,  when  called  to 
Andover. 


58  AUSTIN  PHELPS. 

"  The  manner  in  which  he  regarded  his  ministry 
at  Pine  Street,  in  subsequent  years,  was  character- 
istic of  him.  '  I  would  give  anything  in  the  world,' 
he  said,  in  one  of  his  letters  to  me,  'if  I  could  have 
the  opportunity  of  living  over  again  my  six  years  of 
ministry  at  Pine  Street  Church.'  Only  about  a  year 
before  his  death  he  says  in  one  of  his  letters,  '  I 
am  never  able  to  look  back  to  that  period  of  my 
life  with  one  particle  of  satisfaction.  My  ministry 
there,  as  it  lives  in  my  memory,  was  a  moral  failure, 
which  ought  not  to  gratify  a  Christian  pastor;  it 
had  in  it  so  little  of  Christ,  oh,  so  little  of  Christ ! 
I  think  I  have  been  forgiven,  and  God  will  not  fling 
it  in  my  face  when  I  stand  at  His  bar.  He  is  a  mag- 
nanimous Judge  and  I  have  peace  in  that  assurance.' 

"I  need  not  say  that  his  people  formed  a  very 
different  estimate  of  his  preaching." 

A  few  years  before  his  death,  on  a  New  Year's 
eve  there  came  to  his  house  in  Andover  one  of  the 
mysterious  packages  of  the  holiday  time.  The  sick 
man,  haggard  and  patient,  sat  by  the  fireside  where 
his  family  loved  best  to  watch  his  dear  and  honored 
face.  His  happiest  moments,  we  believe,  were  spent 
then  and  there  with  his  dearest  near  him.  His 
best  stories,  his  most  stimulating  suggestions,  his 
merriest  jests,  —  and  no  man  could  be  merrier  when 
the  mood  came,  —  were  all  aroused  by  such  hours  as 
those.  The  play  of  the  generous  fire  which  he  heaped 
lavishly  upon  the  hearth,  the  respite  from  care,  the 
approach  of  sleep,  the  chatter  of  voices  that  he  loved, 
all  helped  the  sufferer,  and  gave  him,  we  are  fain  to 
believe,  some  comfort  and  much  peace. 


MARRIAGE;    AND   THE   PARISH.  59 

From  one  of  these  quiet  moments  the  New  Year 
express  aroused  him.  He  had  been  suffering  more 
than  usual,  and  was  sitting  with  closed  eyes  listening 
to  our  idle  talk.     He  opened  the  package  languidly. 

It  contained  an  album  of  the  photographs  of  his 
old  Pine  Street  people,  all  the  living  who  could  be 
found,  all  the  dead  whose  portraits  could  be  copied. 
Their  pastor's  own  young  face  headed  the  gallery. 

Professor  Phelps  took  the  book,  turned  the  pages ; 
we  saw  his  hands  tremble  violently ;  he  did  not 
speak.  In  a  moment  he  broke  down  utterly,  and 
went  sobbing  from  the  room. 

So  profound,  so  pathetic,  was  the  yearning  of  his 
heart  toward  his  only  people,  and  the  personal 
ministry  of  the  faith  of  Christ.  God  only  knows 
how  much  it  had  cost  him  to  leave  it  and  leave  them. 

Not  an  honor  in  his  professional  life,  not  a  tribute 
to  his  literary  success,  ever  took  the  place  of  the 
love  of  that  "plain  parish."  To  the  day  of  his 
death  he  went  uncomforted  because  of  it. 


CHAPTER  V. 

FROM   BOSTON   TO    ANDOVER. 

What  he  was  as  a  preacher,  in  his  pastoral  days, 
is  told  in  the  simple  fact  that  he  left  the  pastorate  as 
he  did,  for  the  end  he  did. 

It  is  almost  impossible,  so  wide  has  been  the  havoc 
wrought  by  death  and  change  upon  his  people,  to 
find  any  such  account  as  we  could  wish,  of  the 
pulpit  work  of  those  six  years.  The  most  that  we 
know  of  it  is  that  the  Trustees  of  the  Andover 
Seminary,  upon  an  accidental  hearing,  elected  him 
to  fill  the  Chair  of  Sacred  Rhetoric  and  Homiletics  ; 
and  we  may  fairly  draw  our  own  conclusions.  His 
own  impression  of  the  three  hundred  youthful 
sermons  which  he  burned,  without  remorse  for  the 
deed,  may  pass  for  what  it  is  worth.  That  auto-da-fe 
was  very  like  him.  His  own  account  of  the  con- 
scientious and  prompt  self-distrust  with  which  he  was 
moved  to  decline  the  election,  and  of  the  almost 
piteous  indecision  with  which  he  reconsidered,  and 
finally  accepted  it,  are  more  to  the  purpose  than  any 
words  of  ours.  No  young  man,  harassed  by  the 
early  decisions  of  life  that  gives  us  so  little  light 
upon  our  choices,  while  yet  so  severe  upon  our 
blunders,  can  read  without  a  thrill  of  sympathy 
Professor  Phelps's  description  of  his  going  up  and 
down  Governor  Armstrong's  doorsteps  in  the  dark, 
CO 


FROM   BOSTON   TO    ANDOVER.  61 

with  his  letter  of  acceptance  in  his  hand;  unable  to 
bring  himself  to  ring  the  bell ;  not  daring  to  cast 
the  die  which  should  place  him  in  one  of  the  most 
brilliant  positions  that  his  ecclesiastical  constituency 
had  then  to  offer  to  any  man  young  or  old.  Of 
"  position,"  and  what  was  "  brilliant,"  and  what  was 
successful  or  important  in  the  worldly  way  of  looking 
at  things,  he  seems  to  have  thought  not  at  all.  Of 
his  own  ability  to  do  an  eminent  thing,  he  seems  to 
have  had  small  opinion.  He  was  a  man  never 
without  the  ambition  natural  to  an  intellect  like  his  ; 
but  it  was,  from  the  first,  an  ambition  so  sanctified 
that  it  passed  into  aspiration,  and  was  hardly  recog- 
nizable by  the  other  name.  As  he  paced  the  side- 
walk on  Beacon  Street  before  the  Governor's  door, 
in  irresolute  anguish,  no  vision  of  name  or  fame 
seems  to  have  visited  him ;  only  the  angels  of  a 
devout  heart  consecrated  to  "that  something  not 
ourselves,"  which  lifts  a  man's  life  above  all  the 
self-seeking,  small,  and  satisfied  of  his  kind. 

That  prayer  to  God  for  guidance,  for  a  single  sign 
from  heaven,  for  a  fleck  of  light  on  the  problem 
of  life,  was  answered  only  as  God  answers  most  of 
us  in  our  direst  needs.  By  the  resources  of  our 
own  natures  the  reply  must  come. 

Mr.  Phelps  went  to  Andover ;  and  the  reverence 
of  more  than  a  thousand  pupils  whom  he  trained 
to  the  cherished  work  which  he  had  abandoned  for 
their  sakes,  justifies  his  trembling  choice,  blessing  it 
and  him  to-day. 

In  a  private  diary,  or  record,  discovered  among  his 
papers,  and  bearing  the  date  of  the  year  which 
took  him   to    Andover,  we  find  an    analysis    of   his 


62  AUSTIN  PHELPS. 

own  motives  so  scathing,  so  honest,  that  it  seems  to 
leave  little  for  the  Judgment  Day  of  the  biblically 
trained  imagination.  In  summing  up  the  situation 
he  says :  "  I  think  that  I  feel  a  strong  sense, 
especially  at  times  when  my  impressions  are  the 
most  vigorous,  of  dependence  on  God  in  the  effort 
I  am  about  to  make.  I  am  to  meet  toil,  difficulty, 
criticism,  comparison  with  other  men,  and  God  only 
can  sustain  me  and  give  me  success,  and  He  will  not 
probably  do  it  unless  He  sees  that  I  am  in  a  measure 
true  to  the  spiritual  character  of  my  work.  It  is 
my  strong  desire  to  be  enabled  to  combine  the  true 
characteristics  of  an  eminent  Christian  with  that  of 
eminent  intelligence  and  mental  discipline." 

Professor  Park  of  Andover,  being  one  of  the  few 
friends  left  who  can  contribute  memories  of  that 
early  period  to  this  memorial,  has  sent  the  following 
reminiscence :  — 

"  When  Mr.  Phelps  was  ordained  pastor  of  Pine 
Street  Church  in  Boston,  I  had  been  intimate  for  more 
than  ten  years  with  members  of  that  church.  I  have 
seldom  known  a  layman  so  well  acquainted  with  emi- 
nent clergymen  as  was  Eliphalet  Kimball,  Esquire,  the 
Senior  Deacon  at  Pine  Street.  He  had  '  searched  the 
country  round  '  for  men  fitted  to  be  pastors  in  a  city 
like  Boston.  Whenever  I  met  him,  his  favorite  topic 
of  conversation  was  'our  young  minister.'  Other 
ministers  were  young,  but  were  not  profound ;  other 
ministers  were  profound,  but  were  not  young.  .  .  . 
I  was  pleased  to  see  a  large  proportion  of  strangers 
in  the  church.  They  appeared  to  be  men  of  more 
than  common  intelligence.  They  listened  thought- 
fully to  the  sermons,  which  were  fitted  to  encourage 


FROM   BOSTON"  TO  ANDOVER.  63 

and  reward  the  most  earnest  thoughtfulness.  Dur- 
ing the  sessions  of  the  Massachusetts  Legislature, 
many  senators  and  representatives  frequently  listened 
to  the  discourses  of  the  deep  and  youthful  preacher. 
Hon.  Mr.  Calhoun  of  Springfield,  President  of  the 
Senate,  was  enthusiastic  in  praise  of  the  young  divine. 
Rev.  Joseph  B.  Clark,  D.D.,  was  a  member  of  the 
Pine  Street  Church,  and  was  an  admirer  of  Mr. 
Phelps.  When  consulted  on  the  question  of  calling 
so  young  a  man  to  the  Professorship  of  Sacred  Rhet- 
oric at  Andover,  Dr.  Clark  said :  '  Mr.  Phelps  is 
older  in  mind  than  in  body.  His  youth  will  expose 
him  to  no  danger.  His  pupils  will  look  up  to  him  as 
a  man  of  wisdom  and  experience.' 

"  The  style  of  Professor  Phelps  in  his  later  years 
differed  somewhat  from  his  earlier  style.  There  were 
various  causes  of  this  change.  One  of  them  was  his 
discipline  in  studying  the  materials  for  the  '  Sabbath 
Hymn  Book.'  He  frequently  referred  to  this  dis- 
cipline as  having  made  an  epoch  in  his  use  of  his 
mother  tongue.  It  led  him  to  place  a  lower  value 
than  formerly  on  the  Latinisms  of  an  English  sermon, 
and  a  higher  value  than  formerly  on  its  Saxon  idioms. 
His  health  had  begun  to  decline,  but  his  language 
gained  a  new  raciness  and  grip.  Some  of  his  latest 
letters  to  me  were  more  powerful  than  any  of  his 
earliest.  In  one  of  them,  after  alluding  to  the  '  Sab- 
bath Hymn  Book,'  he  wrote  words  of  uncommon 
vigor  and  terseness  in  regard  to  details  of  his  own 
history.  They  were  strictly  confidential,  but  if  given 
to  the  public  would  attract  as  close  attention,  and 
excite  as  deep  an  interest,  as  perhaps  any  of  the  illus- 
trative paragraphs  in   our  books  of  rhetoric.     They 


64  AUSTIN  PHELPS. 

flowed  from  the  fountain  of  his  own  thoughts,  and 
not  from  any  reservoir  of  graceful  phrases.  They 
were  specimens  of  natural  eloquence." 

At  the  age  of  twenty-six  the  young  man  took  the 
chair  which  Professor  Park  had  vacated  for  the  theo- 
logical department  destined  to  become  so  distinguished 
under  his  leadership.  At  best,  this  was  no  ordinary 
step.  At  most,  it  was  no  small  risk.  The  junior 
of  his  colleagues  and  his  comrades,  here  as  every- 
where, Professor  Phelps  had  still  the  old  familiar 
battle  to  fight.  It  is  to  be  observed  of  many  lives 
that  their  discipline  has  a  curious  monotony ;  the 
same  kinds  of  difficulty  dog  them  throughout.  The 
strain,  not  to  say  the  bane,  of  precocity  which  had 
followed  the  boy,  the  student,  and  the  pastor,  pursued 
the  young  professor.  He  met  it  with  that  startling 
maturity  which  had  so  impressed,  one  might  almost 
say  so  awed,  his  people  in  the  Boston  parish,  whose 
local  poet  sang  on  some  ceremonial  occasion  about  — 

"  The  fountains  of  that  mind 

Whose  mighty  current  mocks  thy  youth." 

This  affectionate  poem,  by  the  way,  was  found, 
twenty  years  afterwards,  hidden  away  among  the 
sacred  things  in  the  Andover  study. 

As  quietly  as  if  he  had  been  trained  from  infancy 
to  fill  Homiletical  Chairs  at  snap-shot  notice,  Pro- 
fessor Phelps  shouldered  his  life's  work.  He  went 
in  May  of  1848  to  Andover,  with  his  wife  and  little 
daughter,  and  moved  into  the  old  white  mansion, 
the  home  of  his  department  and  the  home  of  his 
heart,  which  he  occupied  for  forty-three  years. 

Thus  stood  the  situation  at  this  time.     Of  especial 


FROM  BOSTON   TO   ANDOVER.  65 

preparation  for  his  department  the  young  incumbent 
had  absolutely  none.  It  was  our  American  "  way  "  ; 
let  it  go  for  what  it  was.  But  a  year  or  two  of  appren- 
ticeship for  an  academic  chair  is  now,  at  least,  usual 
enough  to  save  us  our  reputations  and  those  of  our 
institutions.  In  those  days  the  breathing-space 
before  the  spurt  was  not  so  comfortably  found.  At 
all  events,  in  this  case  there  was  none  such.  With- 
out training,  without  experience,  without  rest  from 
the  exhaustions  of  his  parish,  lie  took  his  duties  upon 
him.  With  the  almost  incalculable  amount  of  labor 
necessary  to  such  a  situation  staring  him  in  the 
face,  Professor  Phelps  stepped  into  it.  Then  came 
the  blow  —  one  of  the  blackest  of  his  sorely  disciplined 
life,  and  one  which  was  enough  to  have  crushed  the 
heart  out  of  almost  any  young  man  of  a  temperament 
far  more  sanguine  than  his  own,  never  too  hopeful, 
and  never  gay. 

For  now  his  eyesight  suddenly  and  utterly  failed 
him.  The  oculist  pronounced  it  a  case  of  amaurosis, 
gave  small  hope,  and  strenuous  commands,  and  with 
the  preposterous  sang  fro  Id  of  science  when  brought 
face  to  face  with  the  practical  facts  of  life,  ordered 
absolute  cessation  from  work  as  the  only  chance  of 
salvation  from  blindness. 

There  he  stood :  his  lecture-room  waiting,  his  de- 
partment to  build  —  nay,  to  create  ;  himself  to  educate 
for  its  occupancy;  his  institution  to  be  honored  by 
its  venture  ;  his  trustees  to  be  justified  of  their  daring 
choice;  his  family  to  be  supported;  and  —  but  this 
is  the  more  usual  American  calamity  —  he  with  not 
a  cent  in  the  world. 

All  our  troubles  are  relative  matters,  and  most  of 


66  AUSTIN  PHELPS. 

us  have  as  much  as  we  can  bear;  but  this  was  no 
very  common  emergency ;  and  to  the  day  of  his 
death,  though  "  acquainted  with  grief  "  as  he  was,  he 
never  could  refer  to  that  period  of  his  life  without 
deep  and  tremulous  emotion.  It  was  the  time  when 
the  waves  and  billows  went  over  him. 

He  came  up  out  of  it,  it  is  hardly  known  how.  To 
the  kind  consideration  of  his  trustees  who,  during  his 
long  career  in  their  service,  never  failed  to  do  the 
pleasant  thing  by  him,  and  with  whom  his  relations 
were  always  genial,  he  owed  something  of  his  escape 
from  the  apparently  hopeless  complication.  To  his 
own  unflagging  will  and  the  habit  of  a  scholarly  and 
devout  life,  he  owed,  at  least,  as  much  more.  The 
Seminary  waited ;  the  professor  —  what  did  the  pro- 
fessor do  ?  One  who  knows  anything  of  his  personal 
religious  impulses  can  divine  what  his  prayers  were 
like  in  that  hour  of  blackness. 

At  the  first  moment  when  the  leash  was  broken 
he  sprang  back  upon  his  books  like  the  tiger  on  the 
prey  left  for  dead,  shut  himself  into  his  study,  and 
came  forth  from  it  white,  hollow-eyed,  feverishly  de- 
termined, and  victorious.  His  lecture-room  received 
him  with  acclamation  ;  and  so  his  work  began.  What 
that  work  was,  the  religious  world  of  America  knows. 

A  merely  filial  view  of  it  is  the  least  that  can  be 
brought  to  the  story. 

In  the  later  years  of  his  professional  life  he  was 
accustomed  in  one  of  the  closing  lectures  of  the  cur- 
riculum  to  remind  his  students  who  were  the  lights 
of  the  profession.  Duly  and  modestly  he  instructed 
them  that  Professor  So-and-so  of  Such-a-place  headed 
the  department  of  Sacred  Rhetoric  and  of  Homiletics 


FROM  BOSTON   TO   ANDOVEE.  67 

in  this  country.  The  statement  was  received  with 
quiet  smiles  and  jotted  down  in  the  class  note-books 
with  exclamatory  points.  It  was  well  understood 
that  Professor  Phelps  stood  without  a  peer  in  the 
line  of  his  life's  work. 

I  have  heard  him  speak  with  stinging  recollection 
of  the  toil  involved  in  those  earlier  years,  when  he 
and  the  Rhetorical  Chair  eyed  each  other  like  duel- 
lists. It  has  been  hinted  that  he  had  the  department 
to  create.  This  was  to  a  greater  measure  true  than 
may  be  lightly  understood.  The  literature  of  the 
department  was  so  deficient  that,  at  the  time  he 
undertook  to  fill  it,  the  young  student  was  sometimes 
at  his  wits'  end  for  the  barest  materials  of  construc- 
tion. A  few  antiquated  text-books  on  rhetoric,  and 
fewer  on  the  art  of  homiletics,  comprised  his  exter- 
nal resources.  He  smarted  under  the  limitations 
which  so  dwarfed  his  scholastic  training  for  the 
work  for  which  his  taste  instinctively  and  imperiously 
claimed  a  scholastic  ideal.  A  lower  ideal,  an  "  easier  " 
nature,  a  less  urgent  inclination  toward  "  best  things," 
would  have  settled  comfortably  in  the  old  white  man- 
sion on  Andover  Hill  and  jogged  over  to  the  lec- 
ture-room till  death  stayed  the  satisfied  feet  unspurred 
by  the  angels  of  high  vision.  But  to  Professor 
Phelps  they  came  with  a  kind  of  remorseless  motion  ; 
they  were  like  the  "  swift  one "  who  visited  the 
prophet  of  old.  With  toil  "eternal,"  benedict, 
"heavy,"  he  struggled  after  his  own  unaided  and 
personal  conception  of  what  his  department  ought 
to  be.  This,  from  the  first  hour,  was  unsparing  and 
high.  To  teach  young  men  as  they  ought  to  be 
taught  how  to  preach  the  Christian  faith  as  it  ought  to 


68  AUSTIN   TIIELPS. 

be  preached,  he  regarded  as  —  next  to  the  privilege  of 
preaching  it  one's  self  —  the  most  solemn  choice  that 
a  man  might  make  in  this  life.  In  this  spirit  he  set 
himself  to  the  work,  —  a  youth  among  the  youths  he 
taught,  —  and  in  this  spirit  he  wrought  till  he  read, 
with  broken  voice,  and  bowed,  gray  head,  his  last  lec- 
ture to  his  last  class,  from  whom  the  sick  man  was 
compelled  to  part  for  life's  sake. 

It  is  more  than  possible  that  the  very  deficiency  of 
building-material,  to  which  we  have  alluded,  resulted 
in  creating  some  of  the  most  marked  and  useful 
features  in  Professor  Phelps's  department  work. 
Thrown  back,  as  he  was,  so  largely  upon  his  own 
nature,  it  led  him  into  the  goodly  places  where  his 
taste  and  intellect  were  at  home.  Thrust  upon  his 
instincts,  the  scholarly  ideals  reinforced  the  religious 
ones.  The  tendency  of  certain  religious  classes  to 
underrate  the  value  of  the  intellectual  element  in  the 
religious  occupations  of  life  is  something  which  we 
all  feel,  but  seldom  like  to  say. 

An  eminent  theologian  once  said  of  a  student  who 
was  neglecting  his  class-room  for  missionary  prayer 
meetings  and  sewing  societies :  "  He  is  ruining  his 
theological  education  for  what  he  calls  doing  goody 
Professor  Phelps  brought  to  his  life's  work  the  simple, 
human,  common-sense  standards  which  regulate  the 
other  educated  professions.  What  he  was  as  a  Chris- 
tian teacher,  his  old  pupils  turn  with  tears  to  tell  us ; 
and  of  that  these  pages  will  elsewhere  testify.  But 
what  he  was  as  a  Christian  scholar,  it  is  well  that  we 
do  not  forget. 

It  must  be  an  inspiration  to  any  young  man  who 
ever  knew  or  loved  him,  to  know  how  voraciously  he 


FROM   BOSTON    TO  AXDOVER.  69 

fed  the  training  of  those  early  years  at  the  sources 
of  literary  culture.  Why  should  not  a  Christian 
sermon  be  a  work  of  intellectual  art?  Could  not 
a  parish  discourse  aspire  to  be  a  finished  oration? 
Must  a  man  be  slip-shod,  hasty,  verbose,  satisfied  with 
the  hortatory,  and  as  shaky  in  his  rhetoric  as  a  morning 
paper,  because,  forsooth,  he  would  preach  the  Gospel  ? 

The  professor  in  the  lecture-room  taught  the  class 
better  than  that.  The  professor  in  the  pulpit  on 
Sunday,  when  "  his  turn  "  came  to  preach  in  the  old, 
brick  Chapel,  told  the  class  other  than  that.  From 
the  first,  his  ideal  of  homilectical  instruction  was, 
beyond  the  traditions  of  the  department,  a  cultivated 
one,  and  years  enriched  it  to  the  end. 

Study  enough,  toil  enough,  thought  enough,  power 
enough,  gift  enough,  and  success  enough,  went  into 
that  Andover  professorship  in  the  thirty  years  that 
he  filled  it,  to  have  honored  any  secular  chair  in  any 
university  in  the  world.  Nor  is  it  given  to  us  yet  to 
discover  that  the  scholar  was  ever  the  less  of  a  Chris- 
tian for  the  scholar's  privilege,  and  pertinacity  in  the 
use  of  it. 

Professor  Phelps  showed  quite  early  in  his  history 
evidences  of  that  something  indefinable  in  presence, 
but  unmistakable  in  absence,  which  we  call  the  liter- 
ary quality.  Into  the  humdrum  task  of  teaching  a 
motley  crowd  of  ignorant  young  men  how  to  write 
sermons,  he  poured  this  precious  elixir,  and  the  com- 
mon toil  was  sublimated.  Add  to  this  the  intense 
consecration  of  intellect,  to  which  we  shall  have  often 
occasion  to  refer,  the  unswerving  devoutness,  the  pas- 
sionate religious  dedication,  and  we  have  the  elements 
of  a  unique  career. 


70  AUSTIN   PHELPS. 

His  lecture-room  became  the  altar  of  his  life. 
Nothing  was  suffered  to  blaspheme  it.  No  little 
diversion  or  controllable  exhaustion  deterred  him 
from  it.  His  students  may  have  suspected,  but 
never  could  have  comprehended,  the  throes  of  con- 
science and  the  pangs  of  toil  which  went  throbbing 
into  those  daily  lectures.  These  were  written  and 
re-written  and  written  again. 

Every  year  saw  the  beautiful  manuscript  (who  that 
has  ever  seen  it  forgets  that  handwriting,  as  clear  as 
print,  and  more  unerring?)  remodelled  from  intro- 
duction to  peroration.  No  class  ever  heard  just 
what  another  class  did.  Each  audience  received  the 
tribute  of  a  special  revision  adapted  to  itself.  There 
was  no  shiftless  handling  of  the  old  duty.  The  fa- 
miliar theme  was  called,  like  a  convict,  to  the  bar  of 
the  lecturer's  maturing  judgment,  for  every  fresh 
group  of  hearers.  No  weariness  of  soul  or  body 
excused  the  incumbent  to  himself  for  any  neglect  to 
polish  his  professional  jewel.  The  too  short  vacations 
found  the  too  tired  professor  doggedly  working  over 
the  year's  lectures.  All  observers  familiar  with  the 
life  of  university  towns  know  how  easy  it  is  for  the 
classic  ivy  to  clog  these  venerable  chairs  in  which 
the  incumbent  leans  back  to  take  his  ease,  not  for 
lack  of  love  of  motion,  but  for  lack  of  the  necessity 
for  making  any.  The  case  of  a  medical  school  known 
to  the  writer,  in  which  the  professor  frequently  went 
to  sleep  while  lecturing,  and  the  students  picked  up 
the  book  which  his  unconscious  hand  had  let  fall 
to  the  floor,  is,  fortunately,  too  extreme  for  any  illus- 
trative value  but  that  of  the  laugh ;  but  there  is  a 


FROM   BOSTON   TO   ANDOVER.  71 

subtler  slumber,  an  easier  desuetude,  and  the  nerve 
habituated  to  a  dull  routine  may  fall  into  it  and  may 
never  know  the  difference ;  nor  (which  is  the  worst 
of  it)  the  student  either. 

But  Andover  was  not  a  somnolent  place.  A  live 
professor  makes  a  live  class.  Nobody  went  to  sleep 
in  that  Senior  lecture-room.  The  air  palpitated  with 
excitement.  Pens  ran  fast  over  those  old  note- 
books. Now  and  then  the  eyes  of  the  writers  lift 
themselves  to  take  treasured  glimpses  of  the  pro- 
fessor's face  ;  and  other  "  notes  "  than  the  students' 
scrawl  are  carried  away  to  help  a  man  in  the  long 
battle  for  which  he  needs  all  that  he  can  get  of  other 
things  than  mere  instruction  in  the  science  of  his 
sacred  art. 

The  professor,  who  always  stands  at  his  desk, — 
no  weariness  nor  any  conquerable  illness  allows  him 
what  he  would  call  the  laziness  of  a  seated  lecture 
—  the  professor,  who  will  take  as  much  trouble  to 
be  a  finished  orator  before  a  few  score  students,  as 
if  he  were  delivering  the  election  sermon  before  the 
Legislature  of  the  State,  or  the  installation  discourse 
for  some  distinguished  divine,  —  the  professor  rises 
before  the  perceptive  eye  like  one  of  the  young  proph- 
ets of  Hebrew  history  ;  his  face  flushes  and  pales  with 
emotion ;  his  blue  eye  fires  ;  his  fine  lip  trembles  ;  his 
unyouthful  gravity  quivers  into  something  too  solemn 
to  be  lightly  explained  or  lightly  forgotten.  The  pen 
falls  from  the  hand  of  the  pupil  who  loves  him  best. 
Upward  to  the  face  of  the  young  master  the  young 
student  gazes  in  a  sudden  hush.  What  manner  of 
man  is  this  who  teacheth  me  the  way  to  the  holy 


72  AUSTIN  PHELPS. 

war  of  my  life's  work?  What  unimagined  halo  falls 
upon  that  work  !  Is  this  what  I  have  chosen  ?  What 
am  I  that  I  should  choose  it  ?  What  am  I  about  to 
do?  Whom  do  I  serve?  Almighty  Father  of  spirits! 
Guide  Thou  the  service,  or  I  have  put  my  hand 
thoughtlessly  upon  the  Ark  of  God ! 


CHAPTER   VI. 

THE   PROFESSOR. 

Time  surprised  no  suspension  in  the  onward  move- 
ment of  his  professional  career.  It  cannot  be  remem- 
bered that  he  suffered  himself  to  fall  into  any  of 
those  siestas  of  content  with  achievement,  to  which 
the  academic  more  than  any  other  kind  of  life  is 
exposed.  "  Death,  oblivion,  or  a  professorship,  has 
engulfed  them  all,"  says  Colonel  Higginson  of  cer- 
tain of  his  college-mates.  There  is  truth  as  well  as 
wit  in  the  epigram.  In  these  quiet  shades  dignity 
may  slip  into  dulness,  and  what  of  it  ?  There  is  some- 
thing of  the  danger  as  well  as  something  of  the  peace 
of  the  cloister  in  the  life  of  a  religious  institution. 

Professor  Phelps  had  many  of  the  monastic  qual- 
ities in  his  temperament.  But,  as  we  have  hinted, 
he  was  too  live  a  man  to  make  a  good  monk.  All 
the  pulse  of  his  youth  and  his  prime  bounded  into 
his  aspiration  to  sustain  the  vigor  of  his  department, 
and  throbbed  there  to  the  end.  We  have  seen  how 
he  created  his  work.  Let  a  few  of  his  pupils  tell  us 
something  of  the  manner  in  which  he  maintained 
it:  — 

"  The  intense  seriousness  of  Professor  Phelps," 
says  Rev.  E.  P.  Thwing  in  the  Congregationalist, 
"impressed  me  from  the  time  he  first  met  our  class 
in  the   lecture-room.      His  vocabulary  was  opulent 

73 


74  AUSTIN  PHELPS. 

and  his  speech  vivacious.  His  mind  was  alert,  some- 
times elate,  but  the  uniform  color  of  his  thought  was 
of  a  deep,  sombre  hue.  He  taught  us  that  life,  duty, 
time,  and  eternity  were  solemn  verities ;  preaching 
was  a  vocation,  not  a  profession  merely ;  that  elo- 
quence was  a  virtue,  not  an  accomplishment;  and 
that  only  as  our  discourses  vibrated  with  moral  con- 
victions, and  our  whole  being  was  tremulous  with 
their  sway,  could  we  move  and  master  men.  On  one 
occasion  he  exclaimed,  —  I  quote  from  my  notes  taken 
at  the  time,  — '  God  means  to  convert  the  world  by 
truth.  We  need  not  mince  it,  paint  it,  inflate  it ! ' 
He  had  no  patience  with  pettiness  or  prettiness,  with 
tepid  or  torpid  souls.  He  veiled  under  a  quiet  ex- 
terior profound  emotions.  His  imperial  personality 
he  impressed  on  the  class  of  1858.  They  loved  him; 
he  loved  them.  On  one  occasion  he  wrote :  '  They 
seem  to  me  to  be  elect  men,  set  apart  for  a  service 
which  has  no  equal.  .  .  .  God  will  not  suffer  one  of 
them  to  drop  out  of  His  hand.'  It  was  an  elect  class. 
It  has  made  a  noble  record.  He  inspired  us  all  with 
exalted  ideas  of  God,  of  the  work  before  us  and  of  its 
sure  success.  To  our  secretary  he  sent  these  words : 
'  Tell  your  brethren  that  I  have  none  but  hopeful 
visions  of  their  future.  I  cannot  well  express  to  you 
how  intensely  I  live  in  their  lives.  Their  success  is 
my  success,  and  their  trials  are  my  trials,  though  I 
cannot  know  them  in  detail.  It  is  a  grand  life  to 
live  at  such  a  period  as  that  now  passing  in  the  his- 
tory of  the  Church.  Their  work  is  to  have  a  grander 
ending  by  and  by.  God's  acceptance  of  imperfect 
service  seems  to  me  a  glorious  thing.  Work  which 
you  and  your  classmates  ask  pardon  for  He  is  able 


THE  PROFESSOR.  75 

to  bless  with  unparalleled  dignity  in  the  estimate  of 
angels.  You  all  have  a  glad  surprise  before  you  in 
the  great  day.  Your  works  will  follow  you,  and  you 
will  no  longer  be  ashamed  of  them.  Such  is  the 
vision  which  always  comes  to  me  when  I  think  of 
meeting  my  pupils  at  the  last  tribunal.' 

"As  our  rhetorical  professor,  he  was  in  written 
communication  with  us,  and  so  brought  nearer  to 
our  practical  work  than  the  others.  Type-writers, 
amanuenses,  and  other  literary  luxuries  were  not  as 
common  then  as  now.  The  amount  of  manual,  as 
well  as  mental,  labor  involved  in  correcting  the 
plans  and  sermons  of  a  class  of  thirty  students  was 
great.  The  patience,  the  exactness  and  thorough- 
ness of  this  service,  amazed  us ;  for  our  teacher  made 
all  things  new,  and  returned  to  us  our  productions 
so  entirely  reconstructed  that  they  could  hardly  be 
recognized.  He  was  very  considerate,  both  in  his 
public  and  private  criticisms.  The  poorest  plan  re- 
ceived some  commendation  to  begin  with,  to  soften 
the  rigor  with  which  it  was  afterwards  dissected. 

"Professor  Phelps,  like  Nehemiah  Adams,  was  a 
master  of  the  sensibilities  and  knew  how  to  evoke, 
control,  and  use  the  deep,  tidal  emotions  of  our 
nature.  He  urged  us  to  recognize  the  subtle,  recon- 
dite factors  of  pulpit  power.  Spiritual  life  and  per- 
sonal magnetism  '  are  a  conglomerate  that  lie  molten 
together.'  A  magnetic  line,  he  told  us,  could  be  laid 
down  the  first  five  minutes  which  would  vibrate  with 
electric  responses  all  the  way  through." 

Dr.  Charles  Ray  Palmer  in  the  same  paper  says  of 
him :  — 

"Very  vivid  is  my  recollection  of   his   form,  his 


76  AUSTIN    PHELPS. 

mien,  his  features,  his  voice,  his  smile,  as  lie  then 
was  —  the  very  model,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  of  the 
refined  and  cultured  scholar,  the  modest  and  dignfied 
gentleman.  Then  began  an  acquaintance  which 
ripened  into  one  of  the  most  helpful  and  delightful 
friendships  which  ever  influenced  my  life.  What  he 
first  appeared  to  me  I  ever  found  him.  The  rever- 
ence and  the  love  he  won  abide  with  me.  He  lives 
in  my  memory  as  one  of  the  most  admirable  of  men. 

"  I  imagine  that  those  who  were  his  pupils  at  An- 
dover,  in  the  high  noon  of  his  life,  say  from  1850  to 
1870,  will  always  believe  they  knew  him  at  his  best. 
It  is  the  teacher,  the  critic,  the  counsellor,  the  friend, 
that  they  found  in  the  chair  of  rhetoric,  and  in  the 
delightful  '  study,'  of  which  he  lias  written  so  charm- 
ingly, whom  they  still  revere  and  love,  and  now 
mourn  with  an  abiding  sorrow.  Of  that  lecture- 
room  in  which  they  used  to  meet  him,  I  have  written 
elsewhere  words  I  may  be  permitted  to  repeat  here. 
Never  did  more  felicitous  relations  of  instructor  and 
pupil  exist  than  were  illustrated  there.  Never  were 
instructions  more  quickening,  more  sympathetic, 
more  genially  adapted  to  find  out,  and  to  fetch  out, 
the  best  of  which  a  pupil  was  capable.  The  courses 
of  lectures  always  seemed  to  glow  with  the  heat  of 
recent  thinking.  They  were  wise,  conscientious, 
scholarly,  exhaustive  discussions. 

"  Of  course,  a  large  part  of  the  labor  of  the  pro- 
fessor with  his  students  was  expended  in  the  criticism 
of  sermons,  especially  of  their  own  early  experiments 
in  sermonizing.  Every  man  who  remembers  his  first 
attempts  at  all  will  admit  they  were  often  feeble  and 
faultful  enough.     The  thoroughness,  the  relentless- 


THE   PROFESSOR.  77 

ness,  with  which  the  professor  dealt  with  these  rudi- 
mentary efforts  were  only  equalled  by  the  marvel- 
lous tact  with  which  he  saved  the  amour  propre  of 
the  embryo  preacher.  None  escaped  the  ordeal  un- 
scathed, but  never  was  one  humiliated  or  disheartened 
by  reason  of  it.  The  worst  hatchelling  left  behind  it 
a  conviction  that  the  victim's  case  was  by  no  means 
hopeless.  Sometimes  it  not  only  ministered  to  hope, 
but  inspired  it  in  a  heart  which  had  been  desperate. 

"  Another  illustration  of  the  benign  personal  influ- 
ence of  this  professor  was  noteworthy.  In  the  final 
year  of  the  seminary  course,  or  the  post-graduate 
year,  there  are  many  experiences  of  students  in  which 
they  need  and  seek  private  counsel.  Professor 
Phelps's  tact  and  patience  with  such  as  sought  him 
in  this  way  were  unique.  When  you  went  to  him,  he 
seemed  to  you,  by  a  wonderful  intuition,  or  a  wonder- 
ful sympathy,  or  a  wonderful  combination  of  both,  to 
place  himself  on  the  interior  side  of  your  experience 
and  see  it  precisely  as  you  did,  and  then  bring  the 
wealth  of  his  wisdom  to  the  solution  of  its  problems. 
It  is  safe  to  say  many  of  his  twelve  hundred  students 
remember  such  interviews  as  turning-points  in  their 
lives.  They  profoundly  appreciated  his  affectionate 
fidelity  to  them.  They  profoundly  loved  him.  They 
were  conscious  of  such  '  undulations '  from  his  life 
into  theirs  as  permanently  uplifted  them.  Many 
appreciated  in  their  later  years  more  than  in  their 
seminary  life  their  indebtedness  to  him.  They  felt, 
as  he  felt,  as  if  there  were  a  certain  continuity  be- 
tween their  ministry  and  his.  '  I  live  over  again,'  he 
wrote  of  one  of  them,  '  in  the  work  of  such  men  as  he 
is.'     And,  again,  in  a  wider  outlook :  '  My  pupils  at 


78  AUSTIN  PHELPS. 

Andover,  some  hundreds  of  whom  are  in  the  thick  of 
their  labors,  are  a  very  precious  subject  of  prayer  to 
me.  They  are  beginning  to  celebrate  the  twenty-fifth 
anniversary  of  their  settlement,  or  ordination,  and 
they  are  kind  enough  to  write  and  tell  me  of  it,  and 
to  recall  Andover  gratefully.  I  live  again  in  their 
life.' 

"  He  was  most  catholic  in  his  intellectual  and  his 
religious  sympathies.  He  was  impatient  of  narrow- 
ness and  of  denominationalism.  As  is  shown  by  his 
paper  on  Congregationalists  and  Presbyterians,  he 
believed  those  two  great  communions  were  naturally 
one,  and  would  have  all  consciousness  of  differences 
dismissed.  He  was  wont  to  speak  of  the  rise  of 
Methodism  as  one  of  the  great  eras  in  the  history  of 
Christendom.  His  '  Study  of  the  Episcopal  Church ' 
was  so  sympathetic  with  much  which  is  characteristic 
of  that  communion  that  some  made  haste  to  conclude 
his  face  was  set  that  way.  He  never  found  occasion 
to  emphasize  any  difference  of  his  with  those  whom 
he  always  called  '  our  Baptist  brethren.'  It  was  not 
in  censure,  but  in  regret,  that  he  spoke  of  the  last- 
named  communions  as  'the  foci  of  sectarianism  in 
America,'  'the  Ehrenbreitstein  and  Strasbourg  of 
religious  seclusion.'  He  regarded  the  divisions  of 
the  Protestant  world  as  grounded  partly  in  differ- 
ences of  temperament  among  men,  partly  in  acci- 
dental differences  of  historical  development,  partly 
in  a  providential  calling  of  certain  men  to  emphasize 
some  truth  in  danger  of  being  forgotten.  These 
differences  seemed  to  him  of  little  real  significance. 
'  At  the  core  of  character  they  mean  little  more  than 
red  hair  or  a  birth-mark.' 


THE   PROFESSOR.  ?9 

«  The  religious  experience  of  Dr.  Phelps  flowed  in 
a  deep,  a  still,  a  somewhat  shadowed,  current.     His 
melancholic  temperament,  his  extreme  refinement  of 
sensibility,  his  early  sorrows,  his  later  physical  in- 
firmities, the  great  trial  which  he  so  pathetically  de- 
scribes in  his  paper, entitled  'The  Premature  Closing 
of  a  Life-work,'  all  had  their  influence  in  giving  a 
tone  to  his  religious  life  on  its  interior  side,  which 
was  more  subdued  and  plaintive  than  those  who  most 
loved  him  desired.    But  his  confidential  letters  reveal 
that  in  his  last  years  there  was  more  and  more  of  the 
peace  which  passeth  understanding,  and  of  the  inward 
light  by  which  the  darkness  is  chased  away.     It  was 
with  no  hesitation  that  he  walked  into  the  valley  of 
the  shadow  of  death." 

From  among  the  loving  personal  tributes  which 
have  poured  in  to  tell  us  what  Professor  Phelps  was 
to  the  men  to  whom  he  gave  his  life,  a  few  have  been 
selected,  each  for  some  reason  which  gives  it  an  in- 
dividual value. 

As  these  affectionate  words  are  taken  from  private 
letters  and  have  been  as  spontaneous  as  tears,  the 
names  of  the  writers  are  not  attached  to  them.  It  is 
enough  to  say  that  they  cover  a  wide  range  of  charac- 
ter and  of  service.  Professors  in  other  seminaries, 
colleagues  in  his  own,  and  pastors  of  busy  churches, 
represent  a  diversity  of  gifts  and  graces  ;  but  are 
alike  in  this :  that  they  were  all  his  pupils,  that  they 
loved  him,  and  have  wished  to  tell  us  why,  and  how 

much. 

"If  there  is  any  man  whom  I  hold  in  more  pro- 
found respect  and  affection  than  any  other,  it  is  your 
father ;  I  shall  pray  to  live  long  enough  to  read  his  life." 


80  AUSTIN   PHELPS. 

"...  Professor  Phelps,  whose  matchless  lectures 
and.  wise  counsels  and  beautiful  character  have  con- 
tributed so  largely  to  the  fame  and  usefulness  of  the 
seminary  at  Andover." 

"  I  revered  him  as  a  Christian  of  unusual  spirituality, 
a  writer  of  rare  beauty  and  force  of  expression,  and  an 
instructor  of  marvellous  ability." 

"  I  can  say  this  as  part  of  the  truth :  his  life  was 
the  best  part  of  his  life-work,  grand  and  rich  as  that 
work  has  been.  Up  to  the  last,  anything  from  his 
brain  and  heart  had  commanding  power.  He  can 
never  cease  to  help  us." 

"  Of  all  I  owe  him,  of  how  much  I  loved  him,  I 
cannot  now  speak.  He  was  for  many  years  the  one 
I  thought  of  as  my  wisest  adviser  and  truest  friend. 
.  .  .  He  wrote  to  me  (in  my  bereavement),  ;  So  you 
have  entered  into  that  great  and  terrible  solitude 
which  no  man  knows  until  he  has  found  himself  in 
the  depth  of  it.'  .  .  .  Long  ago  I  hung  upon  his  lips 
as  upon  those  of  a  prophet." 

"  He  was  a  rare  man.  His  memory  is  an  inspira- 
tion, and  the  thought  of  the  gentleness  and  sweet- 
ness of  his  spirit  has  been  over  my  life  as  a  benedic- 
tion. 

"  He  was  so  true  —  so  loyal  to  truth  —  so  faithful 
in  friendship  —  and  in  everything  artless  and  guile- 
less as  a  little  child.  .  .  .  He  had  a  large  place  in 
the  Church.  He  was  a  prince  among  preachers.  His 
wisdom  was  widely  acknowledged  in  the  affairs  of 
churches.  His  learning  was  profound,  and  he  had 
wide  influence  through  his  writings.  ...  I  cannot 
tell  you  how  much  I  loved  him." 

"  I  listened  to  his  sermons  in  bovhood.  .  .  .     His 


THE   PROFESSOR.  81 

character  helped  to  make  Andover  a  grand  place  to 
be  born  and  grow  up  in." 

« I  went  to  Andover  in  1867  mainly  for  the  purpose 
of  placing  myself  under  Professor  Phelps's  instruction 
and  influence.     Long  before  that  time  his  little  classic 
'  The  Still  Hour,'  had  wrought  itself  into  the  very 
roots  and  fibres  of  my  being.     His  lectures  at  once 
threw  their  spell  over  me  so  irresistibly  that  I  have 
never  escaped  from  it.     They  are  still  my  constant 
study,  models,  and  inspiration.  ...     His  words    of 
counsel  to  me  as  an  individual   have   been   a   per- 
petual incentive  and  benediction  in  all  the  years  of 
my  ministry.     His   face,  as  I  knew  it,   has  always 
hung  in  my  library.  ...     I  have  read  with  avidity 
and  preserved  with  affection  every  scrap  of  his  pub- 
lished writings  since  my  seminary  days." 

"A  great  teacher,  to  whom  my  debt  is  wide  as  lite 

itself.  ... 

«  A  more  polished  intellect,  a  more  elegant  eru- 
dition, a  more  enchanting  rhetoric,  than  Professor 
Phelps's  I  never  met,  The  influence  of  these  rare 
gifts  charmed  and  roused  every  one  of  his  pupils. 
They  were  peerless  and  priceless. 

"  He  was  a  critic,  generous,  sympathetic,  humorous, 
thorough,  and  helpful.  He  was  a  preacher  of  devout 
tone  and  impressive  manner,  whose  diction  of  beauty 
knit  to  strength,  and  whose  doctrine  of  granite  lined 
with  gold,  furnished  us  with  the  best  of  models. 
He  was  a  counsellor  on  whom  the  doubting  ami 
perplexed  could  lean  securely,  even  as  he  leaned  on 
the  strong  and  tender  heart  of  his  Master.  He  was 
a  man  with  his  feet  solidly  on  the  earth,  with  his 
head  sincerely  in  the  skies,  a  fervid  lover  of  his  native 


82  AUSTIN  PHELPS. 

land,  a  theologian  absolutely  true  to  his  convictions, 
an  author  whose  literary  and  devotional  magic  have 
made  him  a  sort  of  seraphic  doctor  to  thousands  of 
aspiring  souls.  How  well  I  remember  the  favorite 
phrase  of  his  class-room  prayer,  asking  that  his  pupils 
might  be  '  wise  to  win  souls  to  Christ.' " 

This  summed  up  his  holy  personality. 

"  I  represent  a  host  of  men,  now  out  in  the  ministry, 
who  are  quick  to  accord  to  him  the  power  of  a 
master.  He  had  an  almost  divine  felicity  in  touching 
the  springs  of  the  hidden  life  within,  that  set  us 
agoing.  I  do  not  recall  another  man  among  teachers, 
in  college  or  seminary,  his  equal  in  commanding  a 
universal  authority  and  admiration.  Most  men  who 
are  eminent  have  certain  drawbacks,  but  as  man, 
teacher,  friend,  he  had  none.  It  was  a  mystery  to 
see  him  set  aside  in  what  we  would  call  his  meridian 
by  his  illness ;  but  how  abundant  and  helpful  has 
been  his  service  to  the  world  since ! 

"  They  tell  us  that  when  Bunyan  died  his  parishioners 
besought  that  they  might  be  buried  near  him,  and  I 
confess  that  I  should  like  to  rise  with  Professor 
Phelps  when  Gabriel's  clarion  rings." 

Reference  has  been  made  by  one  of  his  now  gray- 
headed  "  boys "  to  the  labor  which  he  performed 
upon  the  sermons  of  his  class.  But  no  one  not  be- 
hind the  scenes  can  form  a  just  impression  of  the 
amount  and  kind  of  toil  which  went  into  their 
drudgery.  Nay,  by  the  time  it  left  his  throbbing 
brain  and  patient  heart  and  hand  it  was  no  longer 
drudgery.  He  lifted  that  dreary  task.  He  subli- 
mated it.  A  thankless  business,  verily,  to  criticise 
the  callow  starts   of  fledglings  too  young  at  their 


THE  PROFESSOR.  83 

flights  to  know  the  sky  from  the  tree-top !  But  the 
professor  performed  it  with  a  fidelity  and  a  respect 
which  won  the  gratitude  of  the  student  whose  much- 
marked  manuscript  came  back  to  him  with  the  severest 
reviewing  in  the  class. 

Those  of  us  who  crept  silently  into  the  study,  and 
sat  patiently  waiting  for  the  moment  when  the 
criticism  should  be  done,  and  the  dear  voice  could 
speak,  can  testify  with  what  loyalty  he  treated  his 
students'  work.  Never  in  a  single  instance  can  I 
recall  his  having  betrayed,  even  in  those  intimate 
moments,  the  name  of  any  pupil  whom  he  might  find 
so  discouraging,  or  so  amusing,  that  the  pen  dropped 
from  his  hand,  and  the  impulsive  exclamation  from 
his  lips.  Good  work  inspired  him,  and  he  labored 
over  it  with  a  kind  of  fatherly  pride.  A  poor  sermon 
seemed  to  take  the  life  out  of  him ;  but  he  was  quite 
true  to  the  writer.  We  have  been  told  that  his 
students  have  cherished  the  professor's  criticisms  — 
the  professor's  plans  —  till  they  were  themselves  gray 
pastors.  We  cannot  be  too  often  reminded  that  work 
always  tells  in  this  world  ;  and  the  sheer  amount  of 
faithful  toil  put  into  that  critical  assistance  aroused 
always  more  gratitude  than  resentment  from  the 
criticised.  This  custom  of  Professor  Phelps's  may  be 
better  estimated  if  it  is  said  that  such  is  by  no  means 
universal  in  the  homiletical  instruction  of  theologi- 
cal students.  There  is  many  an  easier  way  of  passing 
the  point.  He  chose  the  hardest,  and  his  works  do 
follow  him.  He  told  me  once  that  he  had  carefully 
corrected  in  this  way,  with  written  critiques,  I  think 
it  was  sixty  sermons  a  year,  for  —  I  will  not  say  how 
many  years.     Really,  it  may  be  said  that  no  phase  of 


84  AUSTIN  PHELPS. 

his  professional  work  has  lasted  longer  in  the  memo- 
ries of  his  students. 

Of  one  other  habit  of  his  we  cannot  omit  to  speak, 
before  we  pass  out  of  the  lecture-room.  This,  too, 
is  tenderly  recalled.  I  refer  to  the  prayer  with  which 
he  opened  his  lecture.  Nothing  was  suffered  to  pre- 
vent the  invocation,  which  nothing  ever  seemed  to 
make  monotonous.  I  have  listened  to  it  day  after 
day,  in  the  summer,  when  the  lectures  on  English 
style  crowded  the  lecture-room  with  outsiders, — resi- 
dents and  strangers,  both  men  and  women,  who  came 
to  hear  him,  —  and  no  filial  appreciation  can  over- 
state the  manner  with  which  those  prayers  were  re- 
ceived. 

Brief,  solemn,  low  of  voice,  thrilling  in  intensity, 
the  few  words  consecrating  that  service  vibrated 
from  heart  to  heart.  With  a  power  which  lifted 
the  daily  toil  into  a  glorious  opportunity,  the  life's 
work  into  a  sublime  mission,  that  prayer  touched  the 
secret  of  the  heart  —  his  old  students  will  remem- 
ber how.  The  professor  ministered  like  a  priest  be- 
fore them.  That  battered  old  desk  was  an  altar,  and 
it  seemed  to  smoke  before  the  eyes  with  sacred  fire. 
Sometimes,  not  often,  —  weary  with  what  personal 
burden  or  untold  anguish  ?  —  his  voice  broke.  A  hush 
wrapped  the  lecture-room.  The  bowed  heads  lifted 
themselves  slowly.  Eyes  too  dim  to  read  the  notes 
bent  to  the  page.  Thoughts  and  vows  too  solemn  to 
be  told  sprang  to  the  heart.  In  a  kind  of  awe  the 
students  considered  what  he  who  taught  them  meant 
by  consecration. 

"  It  is  enough  for  me,"  said  one  of  them,  "  to  take 
off  my  hat  when  I  see  him  go  by.     I  would  give  ten 


THE   PROFESSOR.  85 

years  of  my  life  to  live  one  year  in  immediate  sight 
of  that  man's  Christian  character." 

His  unconsciousness  of  the  personal  affection 
which  followed  him  in  every  relation  of  life  was  the 
most  beautiful  thing  about  it.  Once,  when  some  one 
told  him  of  the  admiration,  not  to  say  adoration,  of  a 
person  almost  unknown  to  him,  sudden  and  rare  tears 
bathed  his  face,  and  in  a  voice  broken  till  it  was  almost 
inarticulate  he  murmured :  —  "  When  saw  we  —  Thee 
—  an  hungered  ?  " 

Upon  the  same  page  in  which  this  little  scene  was 
recorded,  I  find  that  I  have  taken  further  notes  of 
a  conversation  in  which  he  said :  — 

"  I  think  it  is  reasonable  to  bring  to  bear  upon  our- 
selves the  same  principles  of  judgment  that  we  bring 
to  bear  upon  other  people.  Therefore  it  may  be  — 
as  artless  perfections  are  the  highest  —  that  we  have 
some  of  the  very  graces  of  which  we  are  unconscious, 
because  we  are  unconscious  of  them." 

"...  Yet  for  me,  as  I  look  back  upon  my  life,"  he 
added,  with  that  quick,  eager  wave  of  his  hand  which 
all  who  knew  him  well  remember,  "  I  see  that  it  must 
be  blotted  out  as  if  it  had  never  been.  .  .  .  And  I 
believe  it  will  —  I  believe  it  will/" 


CHAPTER   VII. 

THE  HOME   STORY. 

The  old  metaphysical  problem  of  the  duality  of 
consciousness  is  not  more  interesting  than  the  dual 
expression  of  any  common  life.  The  poet  was  a 
philosopher  who  wrote  of  the  two  natures :  — 

"...  One  to  face  the  world  with, 
One  to  show  a  woman  when  he  loves  her." 

The  private  life  of  a  man  of  public  importance  is 
always  approached  with  eagerness,  often  with  uneasi- 
ness, sometimes  with  the  confidence  that  waits  upon 
the  believer  who  sees  the  veil  drawn  from  the  presen- 
tation of  some  mystic  religious  ceremonial  in  which 
acquaintance  has  taught  him  to  trust. 

In  dealing  with  the  home  life  of  Professor  Phelps, 
the  story  must  of  necessity  be  gathered,  and  dropped, 
and  resumed,  as  the  pressure  of  the  professional  career 
infringes  upon  it ;  but  it  will  be  found,  if  rightly  pro- 
portioned and  interpreted,  to  present  a  narrative  not 
without  significance  peculiar  to  itself. 

While  the  professional  struggle  and  success  ran 
their  course  in  the  Andover  lecture-room,  life  went 
in  the  Andover  home  after  the  manner  of  professional 
homes  in  New  England,  —  hard,  but  happily.  Up  to  a 
certain  point  it  did  not  depart  from  the  more  usual 
incidents  and  accidents  in  the  lives  of  brain-workers, 
and  when  the  divergence  came  it  may  be  said  that 

86 


THE   HOME    STORY.  87 

it  came  from  causes  hardly  recognizable  at  the  time 
by  the  actors  in  the  drama. 

Elizabeth  Stuart  Phelps  was  well  past  thirty  before 
either  the  home  or  the  world  found  out  that  she  was 
destined  to  be  anything  other  than  the  homekeeper. 
An  ideal  one  she  was,  and  the  imagination  of  her  hus- 
band, who  always  retained  something  of  a  feudal  view 
of  the  lines  of  feeling  and  action  which  should  be  found 
natural  to  women,  rested  in  her  fireside  graces,  "  nor 
ever  looked  beyond."  It  is  entirely  probable  that,  if 
the  genii  had  never  burst  from  the  bottle  of  domes- 
tic life,  the  professor's  history  had  been  a  different 
one  to  tell.  It  is  more  than  possible  that  if  she 
had  never  written  a  book,  the  wife  of  his  youth 
might  have  lived  to  share  his  age.  But  life  and 
death  tell  their  own  secrets  only  to  each  other, 
far  beyond  our  eavesdropping,  and  to  speculate  on 
the  "ifs"and  "thens"  of  existence  is  as  unsatis- 
factory, though  it  may  be  as  interesting,  as  an  inter- 
view with  a  medium  of  the  spiritualistic  persuasion. 

Genius  was  in  her,  and  would  out.  She  wrote 
because  she  could  not  help  it,  and  her  public  read 
because  it  could  not  help  it,  and  asked  for  more  and 
got  it.  A  wife,  a  mother,  a  housekeeper,  a  hostess, 
in  delicate  health,  on  an  academic  salary,  under- 
takes a  deadly  load  when  she  starts  upon  a  literary 
career.  She  lifted  it  to  her  frail  shoulders,  and 
she  fell  beneath  it. 

Turn  back  a  page  or  two,  and  follow  the  tale 
before  it  deepens  to  its  end. 

In  the  thick  of  the  struggle,  while  those  first 
years  at  Andover  were  at  their  hardest,  the  eldest 
son  was  born.     This  is  he  who  was  named  for  his 


88  AUSTIN   PHELPS. 

grandfather,  Moses  Stuart,  and  whose  life  was  as 
gracious  and  orderly  as  his  death  was  shocking  to 
the  imagination,  and  cruel  to  the  heart.  His  father, 
from  the  first,  adored  the  child. 

He  was  a  peculiarly  sunny-hearted  baby,  and  his 
mother  took  great  comfort  in  him.  The  corroding 
cares  of  maternity  gnaw  softly  when  eased  by  so 
devout  a  child-worship  as  was  always  given  to  this 
happy  boy.  But  love  and  sacrifice  and  delight  are 
not  nerve  and  muscle  and  heart-beat,  and  the  cor- 
rosion of  strength  may  bite  on,  although  the  soul 
is  blessed. 

When  "  The  Sunny  Side  "  was  published,  it  bounded 
to  a  sale  of  over  one  hundred  thousand  copies,  and  a 
popularity  which  lasted  for  many  years.  The  author 
was  besieged  by  the  first  publishers,  and  welcomed 
by  the  first  critics  in  the  land.  The  result  was  inevi- 
table. Volume  followed  volume,—  "  The  Tell  Tale," 
"  A  Peep  at  Number  Five,"  and  plans  and  projects 
of  literary  work  whirled  through  the  burning  brain 
and  exhausted  nervous  system  which  needed  the  im- 
possible, for  life's  sake,  and  instead,  performed  the 
possible. 

Professional  families  know  —  no  other  can  —  what 
the  life  of  the  mistress  of  a  household  is,  and  was, 
in  these  scholarly  homes  with  unworldly  salaries, 
incessant  entertainment,  country  service,  and  little 
enough  of  it;  often  but  one  maid-of-all-work,  to  help 
lighten  the  relentless  drudgery  of  domestic  toil.  In 
the  large,  white  house  on  Andover  Hill  the  woman's 
work  of  which  she  wrote  in  the  "  Angel  over  the 
Right  Shoulder,"  was  heavier  than  in  most  other 
homes   of   its   kind.       The    house   was    built   for   a 


THE   HOME  STORY.  89 

mansion,  and  architecturally  meant  to  be  inhabited 
by  a  fortune.  Mrs.  Phelps  was  too  good  a  house- 
keeper to  be  "  easy  "  in  her  environment.  She  was 
too  conscientious  a  mother  to  let  her  children  "  go." 
She  was  too  tender  a  wife  to  forget  the  tired  pro- 
fessor. She  was  too  hearty  a  hostess  to  neglect  the 
least  of  the  thronging  guests  to  whom  the  household 
of  a  professor  in  any  university  town  is  incessantly 
and  remorselessly  exposed.  And,  alas,  she  was  too 
successful  a  writer  not  to  write. 

Who  could  foresee  ?  Who  could  prevent  ?  Who 
could  understand?  Not  even  the  husband  whose 
foresight  and  insight  were  only  equalled  by  his 
tenderness  and  self-sacrifice.  Everything  that  love 
and  little  leisure  and  less  income  could  do,  was 
done  to  ease  the  condition  of  the  wife  and  mother, 
who  dared,  with  a  physique  like  hers,  to  be  any- 
thing else;  but  she  had  put  her  hand  upon  the 
sacred  fire,  and  it  smote  her. 

In  August  of  1852,  her  third  child  (named  for  a 
family  friend,  Amos  Lawrence  of  Boston),  was  born. 
Her  physicians  expected  the  best  results  from  this 
event.  During  that  year  she  had  lost  strength  rapidly. 
Straight  through  the  burning  Andover  summer  she 
worked  on  copy  and  proof  of  her  last  book,  which 
was  announced  for  the  autumn  press.  She  seemed 
better  for  a  time  after  the  baby's  birth;  and  life 
looked  strong  and  sweet  and  possible. 

Suddenly  the  overtasked  nature  began  to  give 
way.  There  was  some  suspicion  that  a  forgotten 
congestion  of  the  brain,  dating  years  ago,  had  bestirred 
itself  to  cast  the  last  blow  at  her  enfeebled  strength ; 
but  this  was  not  conclusively  proved. 


90  AUSTIN  PHELPS. 

Her  husband  removed  her  to  Boston,  that  she 
might  be  near  her  physician,  a  man  of  eminence  in 
his  time,  and  because  she  snatched  at  that  pitiful 
experiment  which  the  sick  call  "  a  change."  There, 
all  the  last  expedients  of  love  were  tried,  and  the 
last  delusions  of  hope  pursued. 

She  fought  for  life  with  a  memorable  pertinacity, 
of  which  her  husband  himself  has  written :  "  Then 
began  her  calm,  conscientious,  determined  struggle 
for  life.  '  Now,'  she  said,  '  my  duty  is  to  live,  and 
you  must  help  me.'  She  concentrated  the  whole 
strength  of  her  being  upon  the  struggle.  Sometimes 
so  stern  was  the  conflict  that  those  she  loved  best 
could  scarcely  catch  from  her  a  word,  a  smile,  a 
look.  .  .  .  They  feared  that  she  might  pass  away  in 
the  silence  of  those  dreadful  hours,  unable  to  speak 
her  last  message.  .  .  .  Her  silent  thoughts  of  her 
own  family  would  sometimes  break  from  the  restraint 
she  had  imposed  on  them.  In  one  instance,  when 
her  infant  child  was  taken  to  her  room,  it  seemed  to 
unlock  her  prisoned  affections  —  her  face  lighted 
with  tenderness,  her  eye  assumed  that  depth  of  mean- 
ing which  none  but  a  mother's  eye  ever  has,  and  for  a 
few  moments  she  poured  forth  her  love  in  the  dialect 
which  only  mothers  know  how  to  use,  then  fell  back 
as  if  to  renew  more  resolutely  the  struggle  against 
the  disease  that  consumed  her.  .  .  .  She  would  her- 
self give  directions  as  to  the  various  remedies  she 
needed,  and  would  mark  the  time,  minute  by  minute, 
when  the  remedy  should  be  repeated.  .  .  .  On  such 
occasions  there  were  moments  when,  as  if  to  proclaim 
its  own  immortality,  the  soul  seemed  to  come  forth 
from  that  dimmed  eye,  and,  in  almost  visible  pres- 


THE   HOME   STORY. 


91 


ence,  to  strike  at  the  unseen  foe.  ...  For  more  than 
thirty  clays  she  thus  maintained  the  unequal  conflict. 
At  length  her  hope  began  to  wane.  '  If  it  were  not 
for  my  children,'  she  said,  '  I  would  not  struggle  any 
longer.'  It  was  not  till  the  evening  of  the  twenty- 
ninth  of  November  that  she  became  convinced  that 
the  struggle  was  a  hopeless  one.  .  .  .  She  then  gave 
up  all  with  scarcely  a  moment's  agitation.  '  With- 
out a  tear  her  eye  turned  on  Death.  She  placed  her 
hand  in  his.'     The  closing  scene  was  just  like  UrT 

Few  who  were  present  have  forgotten  —  we  are 
often  reminded  of  it  still  — the  pathetic  scene  on  her 
funeral  clay,  when  the  bereaved  husband,  with  his 
motherless  children  about  him,  brought  the  poor 
baby  in  his  arms  that  the  child  might  be  baptized  — 
as  she  had  asked  — beside  his  mother's  coffin. 

The  haggard,  tearless  face  of  the  father,  the  little 
hands  of  &the  three-months  old  child  clinging  to  his 
cheek  and  breast,  long  remained  vivid  to  those  who 
could  appreciate  the  touching  sight,  in  which  it  was 
not  difficult  to  see  the  symbol  of  that  self-obliterat- 
ing tenderness  which  made,  for  the  greater  part  of 
his  life,  a  gospel  out  of  the  divinest  attribute  in  the 
man  —  his  fatherhood. 

There  is  a  pleasant  story  told  us  by  one  of  his  old- 
est friends  and  Andover's  greatest  teachers,  whose 
observant  eyes  were  the  only  ones  to  notice  that  the 
western  sun  had  stolen  into  the  windows  of  the  sad 
room,  and,  slanting  across  in  one  long  ray,  sought  out 
and  rested  upon  one  object  only.  This  was  her  por- 
trait. As  the  sacred  water  touched  the  forehead  of 
the  motherless  baby,  and  the  sacred  words,  consecrat- 
ing him  to  the  love  and  to  the  service  of  the  God 


92  AUSTIN  PHELPS. 

who  giveth  and  taketh,  fell  upon  the  hushed  room,  a 
glory  struck  upon  the  pictured  face,  which  smiled  as 
one  may  who  understands  and  is  content. 

The  family  festival  in  the  white  house  fell  at 
New  Year's  time.  If  this  were  a  relic  of  the  old 
Puritan  objection  to  Christmas,  we  never  knew  it. 
It  only  occurred  to  us  that  we  had  a  better  time 
than  other  children,  and,  naturally,  deserved  a  differ- 
ent day.  Perhaps  it  struck  us  as  rather  an  honor 
than  otherwise ;  as  if  New  Year's  Day,  and  all  that 
was  therein,  were  our  personal  property.  At  all 
events,  the  merry-making,  inaugurated  when  the  first- 
born was  in  long  clothes,  and  thus  antedating  the 
memory  of  all  the  children,  went  bravely  on,  come 
joy  or  anguish,  life  or  death.  He  was  the  soul  of  it. 
He  was  the  fun  of  it.  It  was  he  who  planned  the  won- 
ders and  performed  the  miracles,  who  held  the  child, 
too  sick  to  lift  its  head,  before  the  New  Year's  tree, 
or  romped  with  the  well  ones  while  they  tore  the 
strings  from  the  little  gifts  that  were  always  neatly 
wrapped  by  his  methodical  hands,  to  deepen  the 
mystery,  and  prolong  the  ecstasy.  He  was  New 
Year's  Day;  and  to  him  the  motherless  children 
turned  as  confidently  as  ever,  sure  of  their  frolic  on 
that  gray  morning  which  ushered  in  the  first  New 
Year  in  which  she  had  ever  left  him  to  trim  the 
"  tree  "  alone. 

We  waked,  and  watched  down  stairs  for  him,  at 
some  incredible  hour  long  before  dawn ;  "  to  catch 
Papa  "  first,  being  the  great  honor  of  the  day.  He 
slept  in  the  bedroom  opening  from  his  study  in  the 
wing;  and  while  it  was  yet  dark,  we  heard  him 
stirring.     He  came  out  shivering  —  it  was  bitter  cold 


THE   HOME    STORY.  93 

to  o-o  down  and  start  the  furnace  fire,  as  he  was 

used.  We  peered  at  him  through  the  window  as  he 
trod  heavily  down  the  long  hall.  He  had  his  study 
lamp  in  his  hand.  Its  light  struck  a  face  so  gray,  so 
ghastly,  so  drawn  with  sleepless  grief,  that  one  at  least 
of  the  children  shrank  with  a  sudden  divination  of  the 
truth.  The  "Happy  New  Year!"  faltered  on  her 
lips.  What  was  she  doing  ?  Was  the  "  happy  "  gone 
from  the  year,  for  him  ?  An  awed  consciousness  of 
the  suffering  that  never  showed  itself  to  make  the 
children  gloomy,  suddenly  befell  her.  Then  he  heard 
the  little  voices,  and  his  own  rang  back,  instantly, 
merrily,  tenderly.  His  face  relaxed  and  shone.  The 
sweet  smile  that  never  failed  us,  answered  to  our 
ignorant  joy ;  and  the  dear  kiss  that  we  never  had 
to  wait  for,  blessed  the  strange  New  Year. 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

THE  STORY;  AND  THE  HOME. 

Professor  Phelps  was  easily  a  hermit,  and  in- 
evitably a  home-loving,  home-staying  man.  His  first 
(indeed  his  only)  trip  to  Europe  was  to  his  tempera- 
ment, and  in  his  time,  something  of  an  event.  Now- 
adays, and  to  the  other  kind  of  man,  it  would  be 
nothing  but  an  incident.  People  did  not  run  over 
then  as  they  do  now.  We  talk  of  "  the  other  side," 
as  an  Andover  professor  of  those  days  might  have 
spoken  of  a  ride  to  Lawrence,  or  a  picnic  at  Haggett's 
Pond.  The  overworked,  struggling  man,  driven  by 
the  lashes  of  his  bereavement,  like  so  many  another 
solitary  traveller,  found  and  took  his  first  opportu- 
nity to  travel  in  the  year  succeeding  the  death  of 
his  wife. 

"  It  is  a  good  thing  to  see  the  world  we  live  in," 
said  the  much-travelled  Longfellow,  and  it  was  a  good 
thing  for  the  lonely  professor ;  yet  he  seems  to  have 
had  rather  a  dismal  time  of  it.  He  was  too  much  alone 
to  begin  with.  He  sailed  in  the  Arctic,  upon  the  last 
voyage  which  she  made  successfully  before  she  went 
to  the  bottom.  He  was  a  miserable  sailor;  of  four 
hundred  passengers,  the  sickest  man  aboard.  Among 
the  letters  to  his  children  will  be  found  a  vivid  and 
amusing  account  of  his  misfortune;  he  was  able  to 
crawl  on  deck   just  before   putting  into  port,  and, 

94 


THE   STORY;  95 

mustering  such  courage  as  an  exceptionally  seasick 
and  sleepless  man  may  possess,  conscientiously  "  did  " 
the  European  tour  of  his  times.  He  was  desperately 
lonely;  he  could  not  converse  in  any  of  the  Conti- 
nental languages ;  he  was  taken  dangerously  ill  in  a 
little  Italian  town,  quite  alone ;  his  letters  of  credit 
gave  out ;  he  was  too  ill  to  renew  them  ;  a  lout  of  a 
landlord  threatened  to  turn  the  fever  patient  out  of 
doors.  He  did  not  have  a  very  gay  trip,  and  it  is 
my  belief  that  he  often  wished  himself  home  again. 
This  he  never  admitted,  but  when  his  duty  to  that 
form  of  culture  was  performed,  he  set  a  joyful  face 
toward  old  Andover,  by  whose  sedate,  scholastic  fire- 
side he  rested  with  the  inexpressible  comfort  of  the 
home-loving  nature. 

In  April,  1854,  he  married  the  sister  of  his  wife, — 
Mary  Stuart.  She  was  in  consumption  when  he 
married  her ;  he  wished  to  care  for  her,  and  he 
did  so  devotedly  to  the  end,  which  came  in  a  year 
and  a  half.  His  affection  for  her  had  been  a  ten- 
der one,  and  the  renewed  solitude  did  not  seem  to 
be  any  easier  because  it  was  expected  and  inevita- 
ble. Sickness,  watching,  care,  death,  burial,  came  to 
seem  the  natural  scenery  of  the  Andover  house.  It 
was  not  that  his  fate  was  worse  than  many  another 
man's,  nor  did  he  ever,  at  his  darkest  moments,  have 
the  weakness  to  call  himself  a  man  afflicted  above 
his  fellows ;  but  it  is  true  that  the  current  of  his  life 
was  unfortunate  for  a  temperament  like  his.  He  was 
not  by  nature  joyous.  His  view  of  moral  responsi- 
bility was  too  grave  to  permit  him  to  be  what  is  called 
light  hearted.  His  personal  sensitiveness  was  too 
exquisite  to  allow  him  to  be  blunt  of  sympathy ;  and 


96  AUSTIN   PHELPS. 

a  man  of  the  most  refined  sympathy  cannot,  in  a  world 
like  this,  be  a  glad  man.  A  little  easier  life,  a  more 
natural,  unbroken  story,  less  bereavement,  less  ill- 
health,  less  of  what  we  call  Providential  darkness 
without,  and  consequent  sadness  within,  more  serene 
human  blessedness,  —  these  things,  it  seems  to  us, 
would  have  been  better  for  a  soul  so  delicately  poised 
and  quiveringly  clouded.  But  God  wrought  upon 
him  according  to  His  own  unfathomable  comprehen- 
sion of  the  relation  of  individual  comfort  to  the 
general  need.  It  is  left  for  us  to  suppose  that  the 
man's  work  required  the  sacrifice  of  the  man.  How- 
ever that  may  be,  the  story  of  Professor  Phelps 
moves  from  sorrow  to  trial,  large  and  less,  revealed 
and  concealed.  With  the  fearless  force  of  the  Greek 
drama  which  is  never  afraid  of  tragedy,  nor  anxious 
about  "  a  good  ending,"  life  bore  him  steadily  from 
discipline  to  discipline,  to  its  trustful,  uncomplaining 
end. 

In  June,  1858,  Professor  Phelps  married  Mary  A. 
Johnson,  daughter  of  Samuel  and  Charlotte  Johnson 
of  Boston.  This  union,  which  gave  him  a  great  deal 
of  happiness,  lasted  thirty-three  years. 

Of  this  marriage  were  born  his  two  younger  sons, 
Francis  and  Edward.  The  former  is  now  resident  in 
Baltimore,  and  the  latter,  who  is  a  journalist  by  pro- 
fession, in  Chicago. 

The  home  of  Professor  Phelps  at  Andover  has  an 
interest  somewhat  peculiar  to  itself.  Many  an  old 
theological  tradition  clings  to  those  stately  walls. 
The  mansion,  by  all  odds  the  most  attractive  in 
that  town  of  broad  horizons,  and  comfortable  homes, 
was  built  by  the  first  incumbent  of  the  department, 


AND  THE   HOME.  97 

with  a  naive  disregard  for  the  pocket  of  the  institu- 
tion, and  a  definite  consideration  for  his  own  tastes 
as  well  as  for  the  present  and  prospective  domestic 
glory  of  the  chair.  The  house  was,  for  those  days, 
a  palace.  Its  massive  foundations  and  architec- 
tural solidity,  the  landscape  gardening  of  its  large 
grounds,  its  terraces,  and  arbors,  and  summer-houses, 
its  coach-house,  and  other  worldly  superfluities, 
shocked  the  religious  sensibilities  of  the  pious  breth- 
ren who  held  the  bag.  It  is  one  of  the  legends  of 
the  mansion  that  the  reverend  builder  put  upon  the 
walls  of  the  north  drawing-room  a  papering  which 
cost  the  then  unparalleled  sum  of  one  dollar  a  roll. 
The  scandal  which  followed  was  so  active  that  the  un- 
lucky incumbent  became  frightened,  and  to  atone  for 
his  extravagance  forthwith  purchased  a  cheap  paper 
with  which  to  cover  the  sight  of  his  economic  blunder 
from  gods  and  men.  This,  I  think,  still  remained 
upon  the  room  when  Professor  Phelps's  family  took 
possession  of  the  house,  and  it  was  held  to  be  quite 
a  point  in  antiquarian  research  to  peer  after  signs  of 
that  "ungodly"  papering,  when  later  (and  more 
modest)  ventures  in  household  decoration  replaced 
each  other,  in  process  of  time,  upon  those  lofty  walls. 

The  house  was  large  ;  its  rooms  fourteen  feet  high  ; 
its  hall  of  a  princely  size  for  its  times,  and  generous 
for  any  times ;  the  wood-work,  all  carved  in  those 
days  by  hand,  was  rich  in  ornamentation  both  without 
and  within.  I  think  the  simplicity  of  the  Hill  was 
even  a  little  disturbed  by  the  bell-ropes.  Should  a 
professor  of  the  Faith  ring  for  his  servant  like  an 
unregenerate  man  about  town  ? 

The  house  was  as  uncomfortable  as  it  was  imposing. 


98  AUSTIN  PHELPS. 

For  years  the  New  England  winters  had  it  all  their 
own  way  in  the  great  hall  and  gaping  rooms.  Tradi- 
tion tells  us  that  a  former  incument,  being  of  a  "  near" 
disposition  in  the  matter  of  fuel,  hung  his  hall  with 
bed-spreads,  and  what  are  called  in  the  country  com- 
forters :  these  were  suspended  upon  ropes  to  break 
the  draughts,  as  the  freezing  inhabitants  dared  the 
climate  of  the  lower  halls,  or  tested  the  thermometer 
of  the  upper  stairs.  Many  other  traditions  follow  the 
house,  more  or  less  of  interest,  according  as  one  cares 
for  that  early  Andover  life.  Perhaps  the  best  of  these 
is  that  of  the  pious  occupant  of  the  feminine  gender, 
who  prayed  with  everybody,  and  on  all  occasions, 
filling  the  village  with  awe.  One  unlucky  girl,  being 
invited  to  spend  her  birthday  in  the  mansion,  is  said 
to  have  unwarily  accepted  the  invitation,  to  find  her- 
self locked  into  the  study  by  the  hostess,  fed  on  bread 
and  water,  and  warned  to  think  of  her  sins. 

Professor  Phelps  had  a  genius  for  home  comfort, 
and  he  made  the  mansion,  which  he  thoroughly  reno- 
vated, the  delightful  one  which  it  is  to-day.  No- 
where else  do  we  see  such  supplies  of  wood,  heaping 
the  big  woodsheds.  Who  else  builds  such  open  fires 
nowadays?  Save  where  one  must,  or  disj)ense  with 
what  one  might,  one  need  never  be  cold  in  that  house. 
The  fire-places  and  the  hearty  Franklin  stove  in  his 
study  never  failed  to  help  out  the  big  furnace  when 
the  bitter  weather  blew  from  Wachuset  a  straight 
blast,  uninterrupted,  against  the  western  side  of  the 
house.  The  dearest  memories  of  the  family  warm 
themselves  forever  before  his  glorious  fires.  He  used 
gently,  sometimes,  to  compassionate  a  certain  class  of 
people  who  "could  not  afford"  to  keep  their  chil- 


AND   THE   HOME.  99 

dren  warm  and  cheerful  by  that  one  bright  expedient, 
while  a  little  paring  of  the  upholstery  or  millinery 
bill  would  have  filled  the  happy  hearth. 

His  own  study  was  in  the  southern  wing  of  the 
house.     Here  the  sun  followed  him   as   if   it  loved 
him,  from  dawn  to  dark.     Here  his  books  in  their 
simple,  painted  shelves   ran  to  the  ceiling,  and  his 
plain  table  and  old-fashioned,  rather  hard,  revolving- 
chair,  stood  to  their  daily  toil  with  sober  faces.     This 
room  itself  was  full  of   shadowy  values,  dating  far 
before  his  time.      He  used  to  speak  with  emotion, 
of  the  fact  that  the  origin  of  the  great  Foreign  Mis- 
sionary Association  of  America  dated  from  that  room ; 
in  which  was  held  the  first   consultation  or  prayer- 
meeting  of  the  men  who  "  conceived  the  inconceiva- 
ble "  idea  of  Christianizing  the  heathen  nations.    His 
faith  in  prayer  was,  to  the  end,  so  utter,  so  simple,  so 
genuine,  that  he  never  allowed  a  light  word  spoken 
of   it   in   his  presence.      That   often-ridiculed   form 
of  devotion  known  as  the  female  prayer-meeting,  he 
treated  with  a  manly  and  Christian   respect  which 
silenced  many  a  flippant  word.     This  little  story  of 
the   missions   and   the  study   always   gave  him  real 
pleasure,  and  added  a  certain  idealization  to  the  room 
which  was  sanctified  to  him  by  the  personal  toils  and 
struggles  of  forty  years. 

It  was  an  ideal  study  —  a  little  plain,  by  the  stand- 
ards of  our  luxurious  bric-a-brac  times  —  a  scholar's 
study.  His  books  occupied  it  to  the  exclusion  of 
trifles.  A  few  of  the  souvenirs  of  his  European  trip, 
the  old  mahogany  sofa  on  which  he  spent  so  many 
helpless  days,  his  wife's  writing-desk,  in  late  years 
the  portrait  of  his  dead  son,  completed  the  incidents 


100  AUSTIN   PHELPS. 

of  the  room.  Eastward,  he  looked  to  the  old  Semi- 
nary buildings,  beyond  which  lay  the  church-yard, 
whose  Improvement  Association  he  created,  and 
beneath  whose  quiet  face  he  rests.  The  morning 
sun  filtered  through  the  red  and  gold  of  the  maples 
which  he  had  planted,  and  the  old  chapel  bell  called 
him  briskly  through  leaf,  and  blossom,  and  shivering 
bough  to  early  prayers.  Westward,  his  eyes  loved 
to  linger  on  one  of  the  most  beautiful  scenes  in 
Massachusetts.  The  afternoon  sun  rolled  in  a  tide 
into  the  study.  The  long  gardens  sloped  by  terra- 
ces to  the  grove  in  which  he  used  to  walk  and  which 
was  dear  to  him.  The  foliage  outline  of  elm  and 
apple,  pear  and  spruce  and  larch,  grouped  by  his 
design,  was  very  fine,  against  the  western  sky.  The 
Andover  sunsets,  always  famous,  were,  from  that  set- 
ting, celestial.  Scarcely  a  sign  of  human  life  was 
visible.  Outline  beyond  outline,  the  perspective  ran 
over  field  and  forest,  light  and  shadow,  to  the  Berk- 
shire hills.  Peace  looked  in  at  that  window,  and  the 
world  withdrew  her  step.  His  noble  face,  when  the 
day's  work  was  done,  —  or,  later,  when  the  day's  suf- 
fering was  borne,  —  turned  to  that  western  study  win- 
dow without  a  word.  He  had  the  expression  of  one 
who  turns  to  a  long-tried  friend  for  comprehension 
which  is  certain  not  to  fail  him.  He  lifted  up  his 
eyes  to  the  hills  whence  his  help  came. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE  PREACHER  ;  AND  THE  AUTHOR. 

As  years  consolidated  his  character,  and  the  re- 
sults of  his  power  and  his  scholarship  took  the  slow 
form  of  public  evidence,  it  began  to  become  appar- 
ent that  the  Homiletical  Professor  was  one  of  the 
preachers  who  sway  the  Church,  and  compel  the 
respect  of  "  the  World."  That  prognosis  made  by 
the  parishioners  of  the  boyish  pastor  in  Boston 
was  more  than  justified  by  time.  No  matter  how 
absorbed  by  the  immediate  duties  of  his  relationship 
to  the  Seminary,  Professor  Phelps  always  took  space 
to  retain  his  connection  with  a  living  pulpit. 

"  Of  their  professor's  own  preaching,  his  students," 
writes  one  of  them,  "  never  had  enough.  They 
begrudged  the  loss  of  an  opportunity.  Such  ser- 
mons as  that  which  was  afterward  developed  into 
'The  Still  Hour,'  and  so  widely  cultivated,  or 
those  which  were  combined  in  the  volume  en- 
titled 'The  New  Birth,'  or  that  entitled  'Man's 
Extremity  God's  Opportunity,'  live  in  the  memories 
of  their  original  hearers  to  this  day,  and  not 
merely  by  the  impression  they  made,  but  by  whole 
sentences  and  paragraphs.  .  .  .  He  used  fairly 
to  take  possession  of  his  audience  by  the  lucidity, 
the   directness,   the   elegance  of  his  style ;   and  his 

101 


102  AUSTIN   PHELPS. 

thought  would  linger   long   in  the  memory,  as  the 
tone  of  a  rich  bell  will  linger  in  the  ear." 

His  popularity  at  ordination  and  other  especial 
services  must  have  been  a  great  drain  upon  his 
strength.  We  find  frequent  allusions  in  his  letters 
to  these  efforts  of  pure  zeal  and  love.  Of  funeral 
sermons  he  was  besought  to  preach  so  many  that 
one  who  loves  him  thinks  of  them  with  a  kind  of 
malice ;  they  took  such  draughts  out  of  his  sym- 
pathetic life.  If  soul  and  body  could  possibly  re- 
spond, he  never  declined.  Added  to  his  more  gen- 
eral pulpit  work,  this  occasional  service  counted 
heavily.  His  answering  conscience  gave  him  severe 
ideals  of  his  duty  as  a  preacher.  The  metropolitan 
pulpits,  the  wide  and  thoughtful  audiences  where 
his  reputation  mounted  so  rapidly  in  the  last  fif- 
teen years  of  his  active  labor,  never  seem  to  have 
absorbed  his  enthusiasm.  He  would  turn  aside  any 
time  to  preach  for  some  sick  or  wearied  brother  at 
a  rural  desk,  where  a  handful  of  farmers  and  country 
folk  sat  bowed  and  awed  before  the  power  which 
shook  them  with  a  divine  storm.  These  congrega- 
tions, touched  by  the  delicacy  which  respected  a  plain 
audience  as  his  did,  created  for  him  that  reputation 
so  precious  to  him,  of  being  honored  and  beloved 
among  "  the  common  people."  Of  him,  as  truly  as 
of  any  man  who  ever  lived,  it  can  be  said :  — 

"  He  gave  the  people  of  his  best ; 
His  worst  he  kept,  his  best  he  gave." 

Sometimes  it  used  to  seem  as  if  he  turned  with  a 
certain  relief  from  the  great  Boston  audiences,  which 
gathered  Sunday  after  Sunday,  and  as  many  more  as 


THE   PREACHER;   AND   THE   AUTHOR.        103 

there  was  any  hope  of   keeping  him,  to  clamor  for 
his   sermons,   to    some   little   West  Parish,  or   East 
Parish,  or  Sonthville,  or  North  Corner,  where  a  few 
obscure  people  lifted  sad  faces  out  of  their  narrow 
lives  to  bless  him.    It  is   known    that   he    preached 
the  same  sermons  to  both  types   of  hearers -with 
how  much  or  how  little  change,  is  not  known ;  but 
my  opinion  is,  with  very  little,  if  any.     He  had  an 
unusual  respect  for  the  comprehension  of  the  aver- 
age parishioner.     He  had  an  extraordinary  faith  m 
the  pliability  of  the  Truth  itself.     He  would  deliver 
his  most  famous  discourses  to  the  few  brave  and  hardy 
villagers  who  dared  a  New  England  sleet-storm,  at 
its  w&orst,  to  hear  him,  -  it  seemed,  with  rather  more 
than  his  usual  fire,  and  with  all  of  his  accustomed 
elegance.     He  never  talked  down  to  a  small  parish. 
He  never  slighted  a  humble  people.    He  never  patron- 
ized the  appreciation  of  plain  hearers. 

As  a  preacher  Professor  Phelps  was  pre-eminent,  1 
should  say,  for  one  thing.  He  was,  distinctly,  a  pul- 
pit orator.  We  have  the  pulpit  reader,  the  pulpit 
lecturer,  the  scholar,  the  exhorter,  the  pastor,  and 
other  familiar  varieties  of  clerical  service,  each  useful 
of  its  kind,  all  honored  and  honorable,  some  eminent, 
a  few  immortal;  and  no  star  disturbeth  the  other 
star,  or  dasheth  from  its  own  orbit  to  try  another  s 

ellipse.  . 

The  pulpit  orator  is  rare.  He  who  deserves  the 
title  earns  the  honors  which  he  wears. 

The  orator,  like  the  poet,  cannot  be  educated  to 
order.  No  diploma  creates  him.  The  gift  of  sway- 
ing a  great  audience  to  profound  religious  emotion, 
the  power  to  convert  that  emotion  into  reflection, 


104  AUSTIN   PHELPS. 

and  that  reflection  into  conduct,  is  a  form  of  genius 
which  may  be  as  enviable  as  any  that  the  world  of 
thought  contains.  It  is  one  open  to  peculiar  diffi- 
culties, and  subject  to  the  severest  tests. 

There  is  no  easy  step  in  all  that  mental  journey. 
No  makeshift  work  can  fill  his  pulpit  of  whom  this 
service  is  expected.  No  Saturday  night  sermons  can 
suffice  for  that  desk.  No  hurry,  no  scurry,  no  expe- 
dient of  weariness  or  distraction,  can  fill  the  pages  of 
that  sermon.  It  is  hard  work,  it  is  high  work,  it  is 
long  work,  it  is  close  work,  it  is  scholar's  work,  it  is 
all  work,  to  maintain  such  a  reputation  when  once  a 
man  has  won  it. 

And,  after  all,  a  man  of  towering  pulpit  eminence 
may  sometimes  turn  away  disheartened  to  his  study, 
because  his  greatest  sermon  has  seemed  to  brush,  not 
to  cut,  the  soul  which  it  is  his  duty,  above  all  things, 
first,  to  save.  A  preacher  is  not  in  his  pulpit  to  give 
a  literary  entertainment;  he  is  there  to  make  good 
men  out  of  bad  ones,  and  better  men  out  of  good. 
We  all  know  distinguished  pulpit  orators  who  are 
polished  till  they  are  like  onyx  —  as  cold,  as  brittle. 
Their  hearers  go,  and  listen,  and  admire  —  and  forget. 
These  men  are  in  fact  better  scholars  than  they  are 
Christians.  They  are  better  orators  than  they  are 
apostles.  They  raise  the  standard  of  taste.  How 
much  influence  have  they  on  the  results  of  conduct  ? 
It  is  not  an  excessive  view  of  the  case  to  say  that 
Professor  Phelps  stood  clearly  among  the  still  smaller 
ranks  of  spiritual  orators. 

This,  when  all  is  said,  will  be  found  to  be  his  true 
position  in  the  American  pulpit ;  and  for  this  legacy 
to  the  Christian  Church  he  is  beloved  as  much  as  he 


THE   PREACHER;   AND   THE   AUTHOR.       105 

is  honored  by  the  generation  which  has  not  outgrown 
the  memory  of  his  working  years.  No  one  who  ever 
personally  knew  him  doubted  the  intense  trueness  of 
the  man  when  he  spoke  the  Word  of  Almighty  God  to 
the  hearer  who  trusted  him  for  it.  It  is  hard  to  be- 
lieve that  any  such  hearer  —  though  drifting  in  and 
out,  the  stranger  of  an  hour's  spell  under  the  power 
of  a  clergyman  of  whom  he  knew  no  more  —  could  have 
left  the  church  in  whose  silent  aisles  that  memorable 
voice  was  echoing,  without  ready  confidence  in  the 
religious  honor  of  the  preacher. 

He  was  a  magnetic  preacher,  but  he  was  a  more 
magnetic  believer.  He  was  a  genuine  orator,  but  he 
was  a  more  genuine  Christian.  Elegance  of  diction, 
fineness  of  form,  power  of  address,  may  go  a  great 
way  to  save  a  soul  if  the  soul  is  behind  them.  He 
did  not  construct  sentences,  and  create  style,  and 
handle  an  audience,  and  stop  there.  He  did  thus,  and 
did  it  as  few  of  his  cotemporaries  have  done ;  he  gave 
literary  value  to  his  expression  of  religious  truth,  and 
memorable  force  to  his  appeals  to  irreligious  men,  but 
he  gave  more.  He  gave  too  much  more  for  a  man  of 
his  physique  to  bear.  He  gave  too  much  more  to  be 
always  understood,  even  by  those  who  hung  upon  his 
burning  words.  He  gave  the  holy  fire  of  an  intense 
heart.  He  gave  the  very  coals  from  the  altar  of  a 
consecration  which  must  flash,  which  must  blaze  and 
burn  his  trembling  life.  He  preached  the  Gospel  of 
Christ  as  he  did,  because  he  lived  Christ.  The  atten- 
tive soul  that  listened  to  him  went  away  saying  less 
"That  was  a  great  preacher,"  than  "That  was  a  great 
Truth." 

In  appearance  he  assisted  his  pulpit  power.     He 


106  AUSTIN   PHELPS. 

was  not  tall,  but  in  his  well  and  active  days  not 
otherwise  than  agreeably  proportioned,  and  of  decid- 
edly clerical  appearance.  In  figure,  he  had  some- 
thing of  the  general  traits  which  we  are  accustomed 
to  associate  with  a  bishop,  or  a  priest.  His  head  and 
countenance  departed  from  that  type.  His  hands, 
not  thin,  but  well  formed,  and  rather  white,  took 
easily  to  the  gestures  which  gave  the  impression  of 
naturalness  and  comfort  to  the  hearer's  mind  and 
eye.  His  manner  was  one  of  the  intensest  —  prob- 
ably, to  such  temperaments  as  are  antagonistic  to 
one  like  his,  it  may  have  seemed  too  intense.  It 
may  have  been  sometimes  said  of  him  that  he  was 
too  grave  a  preacher ;  that  he  emphasized  too  heavily 
the  awful  fates  of  life  and  death,  if  not  in  doctrine, 
at  least  in  his  way  of  presenting  the  more  tremen- 
dous issues  which  must  sometimes  occupy  the  gentlest 
pulpit,  if  it  be  a  thorough  one.  I  have,  in  one  instance, 
heard  this  comment  made  upon  him  by  an  old  pupil 
(of  a  kind  of  mind  noticeably  opposite  to  his)  :  it 
is  the  only  one  which  has  reached  me. 

In  regard  to  his  pulpit  personnel,  there  can  hardly 
have  been  two  opinions.  His  fine  head,  his  broad, 
full  brow,  his  blue  eye  flashing  with  sacred  fire, 
his  thin,  sensitive  lips  all  had  beauty.  The  whole 
vividness  of  the  man  poured  itself  along  his  words 
like  molten  gold.  He  seemed  to  be  eaten  up  by  his 
theme.  It  ran  through  him  like  a  fever.  Yet  his 
self-possession  was  perfect.  Who  ever  heard  him 
declaim,  or  denounce,  or  do  a  noisy  thing  in  the 
pulpit?  His  manner  was  essentially  quiet,  con- 
trolled, and  finished.  The  fire  burned  through ; 
that  was  all.      One  felt  his  emotion   more   because 


THE  PREACHER;   AND   THE   AUTHOR.       107 

of  what  he  so  evidently  restrained,  than  because 
of  what  he  expressed.  It  was  feeling  in  leash 
that  sprang  out  from  the  sensitive  face,  the  modu- 
lated accent,  the  quivering  nerve.  Some  eminent 
preachers  have  been  unable  to  control  their  tears 
during  their  own  discourse.  He  shed  none.  But 
probably  the  most  powerful  element  in  his  pulpit 
manner  was  his  voice.  This  cannot  be  described, 
but  is  not  soon  forgotten.  Low,  distinct,  and  vibrat- 
ing, it  rose  to  rebuke,  or  fell  to  awe,  or  malted  to 
tenderness ;  it  throbbed  through  the  hearer  like  the 
nerves  of  a  soul. 

It  is  not  easy  to  be  a  daughter  and  a  biographer 
too.  One  must  expect,  as  a  matter  of  course,  to  be 
thought  sufficiently  alive  to  the  graces  which  adorned 
the  life  that  we  seek  to  recall.  But,  at  least,  in  the 
impression  which  these  pages  have  tried  to  give  of 
the  rare  quality  of  his  voice,  and  its  power  in  the 
pulpit,  I  am  sure  that  love  and  taste  are  not  con- 
founded. 

Professor  Phelps's  sermons,  unfortunately,  are  not 
left  in  any  such  form  that  they  can  be  given  to  the 
world,  as  sermons,  to  speak  for  themselves.  Many 
he  destroyed.  Many  more  he  dismembered  for  mis- 
cellaneous publication  ;  some  went  into  the  making 
of  the  volume  which  he  called  "  The  New  Birth," 
and  which  had  a  wide  reading.  A  goodly  part  of 
that  side  of  his  life's  work  has  flown  broadcast  in 
religious  weeklies,  and  other  avenues  of  periodical 
expression,  where  a  good  thing  drops,  and  blows 
away  —  whither?  It  seems  a  pity  that  his  pulpit 
work  could  not,  like  the  work  of  his  lecture-room, 
have  been  preserved  in  a  more  continuous  form.  But 


108  AUSTIN   PHELPS. 

lie  decided  otherwise,  and  his  instinct  may  have  been 
right  about  it. 

But  one  pre-eminent  exception  exists  to  the  history 
of  those  sermons  which  some  of  his  old  pupils  would 
now  be  glad  if  they  could  hold  in  their  hands. 

One  there  was  on  prayer.  It  found  so  many 
friends,  it  touched  so  many  hearers,  that  in  1860  he 
wrought  it  out  into  a  little  book,  and  gave  it  to  the 
world  modestly,  even  timidly,  expecting  little  from 
it,  unless,  perhaps,  the  usefulness  of  a  higher  kind  of 
tract.  Its  title  was  "  The  Still  Hour,"  and  its  history 
the  religious  world  knows  too  well  to  need  an  un- 
necessary word  from  me. 

The  book  bounded  into  a  large  and  eager  circulation. 
In  this  country  and  abroad  he  thought  it  had  reached 
a  movement  of  about  two  hundred  thousand.  The 
exact  figures  of  the  American  circulation  cannot  well 
be  ascertained,  the  firm  which  originally  published 
the  book  having  been  disbanded  by  some  important 
accident  —  death,  I  think. 

But  that  "The  Still  Hour"  has  been  one  of  the 
religious  forces  of  its  times,  and  his,  is  matter  of  his- 
tory. Its  literary  quality  gave  at  once  a  new  aspect 
to  his  life's  work.  His  literary  taste  was  now  to 
receive  something  of  its  due.  The  public  recognition 
gratified  him.  But  the  religious  usefulness  of  the 
literary  success  was  the  heart-throb  in  his  delight. 
He  was  overwhelmed  by  letters  from  strangers  all 
over  the  English-reading  world,  laying  bare  to  him 
their  spiritual  struggles,  and  entreating  from  him 
further  spiritual  guidance.  He  was  overcome  by 
their  gratitude  and  their  blessing.  He  was  atten- 
tive to  their  paltriest  criticism.     He  was  awed  by  the 


THE   PREACHER;    AND   THE    AUTHOR.       109 

tenderness  and  the  veneration  which  these  unknown 
friends  poured  upon  him.  He  took  the  success  of 
his  book  tremulously  as  a  mercy  straight  from  God, 
and  far  beyond  his  best  deserving.  He  was  profoundly 
touched  by  it.  At  times  he  could  not  speak  of  it, 
but,  at  the  mention  of  it,  went  to  his  study  alone, 
with  bowed  head.  How  he  must  have  prayed,  asking 
heaven's  help  to  use  this  precious  experience  nobly, 
those  who  understood  him  can  divine. 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE   CLOUD    GATHERS. 

Life  had  now  reached  its  blossom  with  him.  He 
was  forty  years  old,  and  full  of  the  hopes  of  an  age 
when  experience  is  at  its  richest  and  when  the  phys- 
ical background  of  mental  power  ought  to  be  at  its 
best.  He  was  happy  in  his  home-life  and  in  its 
promises.  He  took  good  courage  from  his  wife  and 
good  comfort  from  his  children.  His  beautiful 
home  grew  every  year  beneath  his  loving  hands  into 
something  closer  and  dearer  to  the  heart.  His  pro- 
fessional success  was  assured.  His  power  as  a 
preacher  was  at  its  zenith.  The  literary  form  of 
religious  usefulness  had  unexpectedly  opened  its 
bright  gates  to  him.  Middle  age  looked  at  him 
gently,  and,  with  a  fresh  heart-throb,  the  overworked 
man  turned  to  greet  her  kindest  pledges. 

But  he  was  an  overworked  man.  There  is  some- 
thing awful  about  the  law  of  physical  nemesis.  It 
rides  right  on,  come  death  or  life  —  come  bliss  or 
agony;  and  the  soul  most  exquisitely  constructed,  the 
soul  so  put  together,  that,  in  the  nature  of  things 
it  must  suffer  most,  is  the  first  to  succumb  to  the 
effects  of  the  ideals  which  it  is  the  surest  to  honor  and 
obey.  Too  many  a  man  has  been  the  victim  of  his  own 
aspiration.  Too  many  a  life  has  received  the  deadly 
sword-thrust  at  the  turning  of  the  bravest  battle. 
110 


THE   CLOUD   GATHERS.  HI 

How  the  darkness  first  visibly  gathered  over  the 
working  life  of  Professor  Phelps,  it  was  not  easy 
to  see  and  it  is  not  easy  to  say.  About  the  date 
which  we  have  now  reached  in  our  record  the  signs 
of  physical  surrender  began  to  make  themselves  mani- 
fest to  that  light  attention  with  which  we  are  in  the 
habit  of  regarding  a  malaise  which  is  expected  to 
pass  away  directly,  or  an  exhaustion  which  requires 
"a  little  change"  or  "only  rest."  To  be  "rather 
tired,"  to  be  "only  nervous,"  to  "need  a  vacation," 
are  such  common  conditions  of  American  life,  that 
neither  the  patient  nor  his  friends  are  expected  to 
emphasize  them  till  they  become  too  clamorous  to  be 
disregarded. 

He  had  never  been  a  fussy  or  timid  man  about  his 
own  health;  had,  in  fact,  paid  too  little  regard  to  the? 
subject  to  know  whether  he  were  sick  or  well.  It  is 
probable  that  he  had  always  suffered  much  more  than 
any  friend  suspected.  Certain  family  letters,  dating 
as  far  back  as  1857-58,  now  reveal  how  stealthily 
the  approach  of  his  disease  had  stepped  toward  him. 
Once  in  a  while  he  slips  into  some  confession  of 
physical  misery  which  in  the  light  of  later  years  is 
pathetic  to  read.  "No  sleep  last  night."  "Only 
two  hours."  "I  am  so  exhausted  to-day  that  I  must 
make  this  note  brief."  "I  could  hardly  crawl  to  my 
lecture."  Then  the  postscript  merrily  runs:  "I 
slept  all  night,  and  am  in  grand  condition  to-day. 
Now  for  work !  "  Slowly  and  insidiously  his  trouble 
crept  upon  him.  He  had  never  thought  much  about 
it.  It  was  not  fashionable  then,  as  now,  to  call  it 
the  "American  disease."  It  took  years  for  him  to 
understand  that  he  was  doomed  to  one  of  the  crudest 


112  AUSTIN   PHELPS. 

forms  of  physical  discipline  —  excessive  and  incur- 
able insomnia. 

Among  the  enterprises  with  which  his  burning 
brain  kept  his  body  on  the  strain,  we  have  not  men- 
tioned his  labor  upon  "The  Sabbath  Hymn-Book," 
which  he  compiled  in  connection  with  Professor 
Park  and  Dr.  Lowell  Mason.  I  have  sometimes 
thought  that  this  was  the  one  burden  too  many. 
But  it  is  idle  to  construct  "ifs"  and  "buts"  of 
regret  in  looking  back  upon  a  history  like  his.  "If 
this  had  been  done"  —  we  say.  "If  that  had  not 
been  done  "  —  "If  we  could  have  foreseen  "  —  "If  we 
had  only  understood "  —  "If  anybody  had  perceived 
that  crisis,  or  presented  this  mistake,  or  insisted 
upon  such  a  relief."  —  "Peace!  let  it  be."  Words 
help  us  no  more  than  tears.  It  was  to  be  as  it  was. 
God  had  now  the  silent  uses  of  inaction  and  suffer- 
ing for  the  energy  of  the  strong  mind  and  sensi- 
tive heart  through  which  he  had  in  so  many  ways 
given  blessing  to  a  broad  world. 

The  hymn-book  was  a  severe  task;  but  so  were 
many  others.  It  involved  often  fifteen  hours  or 
more  of  work  in  the  twenty-four.  But  so  did  much 
of  his  labor.  He  did  not  rest.  He  could  not  easily 
play.  He  was  not  lightly  amused.  His  work 
flogged  him  along  the  road  that  narrows  to  the  cliff's 
edge  so  slowly  yet  so  surely  that  one  starts  in  as 
much  astonishment  as  horror  when  the  precipice 
gapes  at  the  feet. 

He  took  perhaps  as  much  exercise  as  other  scholars 
did  in  those  days;  hut  it  was  little  enough.  His 
life  was  in  his  study.  The  demands  of  his  lecture- 
room,  the  loving  personal  care  which  he  gave  to  the 


THE   CLOUD   GATHERS.  113 

work  of  his  Senior  class,  his  literary  labor,  his  sensi- 
tive sympathy  with  and  anxiety  for  his  family  in  any 
of  the  little  or  large  distresses  which  beset  a  house- 
hold of  seven,  the  incessant  social  entertainment  of 
a  professor's  home,  the  often  harassing  care  of  Semi- 
nary affairs,  the  exhaustion  of  those  long  and  not 
always  harmonious  Faculty  meetings  which  every 
professor  in  any  institution  can  understand, —  all 
these  things  required  air,  diversion,  rest,  calm,  and 
above  all,  sleep,  to  counteract  their  corrosion  upon 
such  a  nature  as  his.  He  had  the  strain  without  the 
repose ;  he  seldom  put,  perhaps  he  seldom  could  put, 
the  burden  off.  At  all  events,  the  time  came  when 
his  great  natural  vigor  bowed  beneath  it  all.  He 
was  an  insatiable,  incorrigible  reader.  His  literary 
equipment  was  broad  and  deep.  In  a  certain  out- 
side view  of  the  man  one  might  say  that  he  was  born 
to  be  a  scholar  in  a  freer  air  than  he  ever  breathed. 
He  had  the  tastes  and  the  gifts  of  a  type  of  cul- 
ture which  one  is  more  accustomed  to  find  in  the 
"world"  than  in  the  Church.  But  this  he  did  not 
or  would  not  recognize.  "  Best  things  "  (a  favorite 
phrase  with  him)  were  not  good  enough  for  consecra- 
tion to  the  devout,  even  to  the  ecclesiastical  ends  to 
which  his  nature  was  bent  like  iron  hammered  in 
fire. 

To  the  end,  disease  could  not  calm  his  stirring  brain. 
He  read  much,  too  much,  at  night.  He  showed  me 
once  certain  shelves  in  his  library  filled  with  history 
and  essays  —  a  portentous  accumulation.  There  was 
Froude,  I  remember,  with  his  twelve  volumes,  volu- 
minous Mommsen  and  Gibbon  and  Grote,  Bancroft 
with  his  —  was  it  thirteen?  —  big  octavos  in  varying 


114  AUSTIN  PHELPS. 

shades  of  old-fashioned  red  muslin  fading  back  to 
Number  II.  and  quite  fresh  and  bright  at  Number 
XII.  There  were  many  other  sets,  of  frowning- 
proportions,  whose  names  I  cannot  now  recall. 

"All  these,"  he  said,  smiling,  "I  have  read  when 
the  rest  of  the  world  has  been  asleep." 

A  rheumatic  fever  of  a  violent  type  which  attacked 
him  in  1860  may  have 'been  (he  used  to  think  it  was) 
the  accelerating  cause  of  much  of  his  physical  misery. 
It  left  him  with  the  severe  and  almost  constant  pain 
at  the  base  of  the  brain  from  which  he  was  never 
afterwards  released;  and  it  must  have  emphasized 
the  tendency  to  sleeplessness  which  work  and  care 
and  the  intense  emotional  movement  of  a  nature  like 
his  were  now  pushing  to  a  dangerous  expression. 

His  fate  captured  him  insidiously  as  such  fates  do. 
No  one  believed  —  who  could  believe?  —  that  this 
glowing  activity  was  to  be  coldly  quenched  by  so 
grim  a  destiny  as  now  befell  it.  No  one  suspected  — 
who  could  suspect?  —  that  his  indomitable  will 
might  not  compel  recovery  as  it  had  compelled  so 
many  other  important  phases  of  his  experience.  He 
himself  was  the  last  to  begin  to  despair.  He  took 
his  break-down  as  a  slight  thing  at  first.  He  ex- 
pected to  be  well  again  shortly,  as  a  matter  of 
course.  It  was  almost  impossible  for  him  to  under- 
stand that  he  needed  rest  from  the  professional 
strain.  He  had  been  such  a  remorseless  worker  all 
his  days  that  he  lifted  a  puzzled  face  when  Fate  held 
up  her  first  ominous  finger  of  warning.  It  would  be 
over  soon.  He  should  be  better  presently.  A  man 
must  attend  to  his  business.  Where  was  the  time 
or  the  heart  to  come  from  to  play  at  leisure  ?     If  a 


THE   CLOUD   GATHERS.  115 

voice  from  the  powers  and  principalities  of  prophecy 
had  said  to  him  at  that  time,  "  Twenty  years  of  in- 
curable invalidism  are  before  you,"  he  would  have 
laughed  at  the  prognosis. 

Let  it  be  said  just  here,  even  if  we  should  have 
occasion  to  say  it  again,  that  Professor  Phelps,  in 
common  with  others, —with  almost  all  other  suf- 
ferers from  nervous  disease,—  was  sometimes  called 
morbid.  This  is  the  easiest  word  in  the  world  for 
health  to  fling  at  sickness.  It  is  the  usual  shelter 
for  the  stolidity  and  ignorance  of  the  temperament 
which  can  no  more  understand  its  opposite  than  a 
dead  leaf  can  understand  an  electric  circuit,  or  a 
stone-cutter  the  creation  of  Kubla  Khan.  There  is 
more  incredible  blundering,  there  is  more  refined 
cruelty,  exercised  by  the  well  in  their  judgment  of  the 
sick,  than  is  to  be  found  in  almost  any  other  form 
of  the  relations  of  modern  life.  Most  others  have 
yielded  further  to  the  illuminations  of  civilization. 
Pathology  remains  our  Darkest  Africa,  and  sympathy 
our  benighted  and  belated  science. 

Whatever  may  have  been  true  of  a  few  dark  crises 
in  his  long  experience  of  physical  suffering,  —  if 
there  came  now  and  then  (who  could  wonder,  who 
could  blame?)  in  those  twenty  years  an  hour  of 
gloom  or  despair,  —I  am  confident  that  no  sick  man 
ever  began  his  battle  more  manfully,  with  more  cour- 
age, with  more  imperious  hope,  with  more  persistence, 
with  more  confident  expectation  of  a  quick  return  to 
the  full  activities  of  life.  As  we  look  back  upon 
the  story  now,  the  lip  quivers  at  the  recollection  of 
all  that  silent  and  vigorous  fight. 

Everything  possible  and  impossible  was  to  be  done 


116  AUSTIN   PHELPS. 

and  tried.  He  would  leave  no  venture  of  the  will 
untouched,  no  expedient  of  hope  overlooked.  Physi- 
cians and  systems  and  cures  and  schools  ran  their 
turn  in  his  patient  experiment.  Therapeutic  theories 
in  which  he  had  the  scantiest  faith  received  their 
respectful  trial,  and  went  their  foredoomed  ways. 
The  real  hopelessness  of  his  case  came  slowly  —  per- 
haps that  was  merciful  —  to  his  consciousness. 

At  first  the  very  violence  of  his  suffering  led  him 
to  believe  that  it  must  soon  yield  to  something  in  the 
whole  domain  of  pathological  science.  A  man  could 
not  live  with  no  more  sleep  than  he  had.  And  since 
a  man  must  live,  surely  the  cure  exists. 

But  night  after  night,  month  upon  month,  year 
into  year,  the  agony  grew.  He  kept  on  with  his 
work  —  who  knows  how  ?  It  is  hard  to  think  of  that 
now, —  to  know  that  an  earlier  respite  might  have 
saved  him  to  health  and  to  its  happy  usefulness. 
By  and  by  he  began  to  try  short  trips  and  vacations 
and  the  usual  expedients. 

He  turned  to  me  one  day,  with  eyes  flashing  fire 
from  his  haggard  face.  "I'll  not  do  it!"  he  said 
under  his  breath.  "I  won't  die  here  like  a  hunted 
creature  in  a  hole!  I'll  find  some  place  or  do  some- 
thing —  I  will  get  well !  " 

Once,  at  a  time  of  peculiar  suffering  there  befell  a 
public  excitement  over  a  certain  fall  of  meteorites, 
which  had  some  unusual  character  and  was  uneasily 
watched. 

"Oh,  daughter,"  he  said,  with  a  low,  weary  cry, 
"I  wish  it  were  the  end  of  the  world!  " 

This  outcry,  the  only  one  which  I  can  recall  in 
those  twenty   years  of  physical   torment,    made   an 


THE   CLOUD   GATHERS.  117 

impression  proportioned  to  its  rarity;  the  sound  of 
his  voice,  the  look  on  his  face — who  that  loved  him 
could  forget? 

In  those  first  pitiful  years  —  for  they  seem  to  me 
more  pitiful  than  the  last  —  when  the  torment  which 
no  medicine  controlled  went  on,  with  its  little  inter- 
vals of  relief,  like  the  long  and  the  short  strokes  of  a 
bell,  he  did  not  often  leave  home.  His  chance  of  rest 
was  better  in  his  own  quiet  house,  for  he  was  always 
painfully  sensitive  to  noise.  A  mouse  in  the  wall, 
the  slam  of  a  loose  blind,  voices  in  the  street,  a 
cough  in  the  house,  the  bark  of  a  dog,  the  stamp  of  a 
horse,  would  cost  him  the  night.  But  we  can  see 
now  that  those  scorching  Andover  summers  were  all 
wrong.  He  needed  the  mountains,  the  shore,  life  in 
the  air,  cool  nights.  Hot  weather  always  exhausted 
him  peculiarly.  But  it  had  never  occurred  to  him 
at  this  time  that  he  should  undertake  the  upheavals 
and  expenses  of  summer  resorts  for  his  own  sake. 
Everything  for  his  family,  anything  for  a  child  or 
an  invalid  relative.  But  take  all  that  trouble  for 
himself?  It  was  the  last  idea  which  seems  to  have 
presented  itself  to  him. 

Thinking  of  those  blazing  August  weeks,  when 
the  thermometer  sometimes  did  not  go  below  90°  for 
many  successive  days  and  nights,  we  remember  what 
he  must  have  suffered,  and  how  little  we  understood 
it. 

Once,  I  know,  there  had  been  nearly  a  week  of  the 
terrible  weather.  In  all  that  time  he  had  slept  just 
one  hour.  Try  it,  if  you  think  this  a  light  experi- 
ence. His  face  became  something  heart-breaking 
to  look  upon.      He  did  not  complain  —  he  never  did 


118  AUSTIN  PHELPS. 

that.  He  did  not  say,  "I  suffer."  He  ceased  to  say 
anything  at  all.  He  took  his  horse  and  went  off 
alone  for  hours  for  long  drives.  He  came  home 
and  shut  his  study  door  and  bore  it  as  he  could. 
There  was  nothing  to  do.  Coax  the  children  into 
quiet  by  day,  and  creep  down  to  listen  at  his  door  at 
midnight,  lest  he  have  some  mortal  need  of  help,  and 
pray  one's  soul  out  for  the  one  common  mercy  which 
God  denied  him  —  but  of  what  avail  ?  Insomnia  is 
the  disease  in  which  tenderness  is  as  helpless  as 
science.     There  was  nothing  to  be  done. 

On  one  of  these  burning  afternoons  I  met  him 
coming  from  the  barn  where  he  had  put  up  his  horse. 
I  was  trying  to  intercept  him,  to  see  about  unhar- 
nessing, that  he  might  be  spared  the  fatigue,  and 
perhaps,  not  understanding  the  motive,  he  may  have 
thought  that  he  was  watched  with  an  intrusive  sym- 
pathy. 

He  stood  still  and  turned  his  face  toward  me. 
When  he  lay  in  his  coffin  it  was  not  so  ghastly,  and 
bore  far  less  signs  of  suffering.  He  did  not  speak. 
For  a  moment  he  regarded  me  remotelv,  like  a  being 
from  some  world  of  anguish  which  the  common  heart 
of  human  love  could  neither  comprehend  nor  enter. 
Then,  lest  he  should  hurt  or  sadden  one  of  his  chil- 
dren, he  tried  to  smile,  and  the  smile  was  the  worst 
of  all.  He  passed  on  and  went  to  his  study  and 
locked  the  door  —  a  vision  of  such  anguish  as  the 
memory  would  forget  if  it  could.  It  is  a  comfort 
even  now  to  remember  that  on  that  night  the  starv- 
ing brain  was  fed,  and  that  God  sent  him  sleep. 


CHAPTER   XI. 

THE   FATHER. 

It  would  be  an  interesting  study  in  biographical 
literature  to  note  the  proportion  of  public  honors  to 
private  virtues.  Too  many  a  great  man  has  received 
the  plaudits  of  a  world  which  knew  too  little  of  those 
elements  of  personality  that  do  not  enter  into  the 
world's  rough  calculations.  A  man's  public  work 
and  the  ideals  of  domestic  chivalry  do  not  look  the 
same  way.  How  many  a  saddened  wife  has  drawn 
the  veil  over  a  face  that  must  betray  no  comment 
when  her  husband's  professional  greatness  is  glori- 
fied in  her  gentle  ears !  How  many  a  neglected  or 
unfortunately  reared  child  has  bitten  a  trembling  lip 
to  restrain  the  bitter  word  that  leaps  to  qualify  a 
father's  fame ! 

Wherever  the  fact  of  kin  and  the  color  of  affection 
may  tint  the  canvas  of  the  portrait,  here,  at  least,  the 
palette  cannot  be  questioned.  Home-life  is  a  ter- 
rible revealer  of  values.  Behind  the  drawn  shades 
and  the  closed  door  dwells  the  utter  truth.  If  a 
man's  family  may  not  testify  what  manner  of  man  he 
was,  who  should  ?  who  can  ? 

It  has  been  with  a  natural  shrinking  too  profound 
to  bear  more  than  an  allusion  that  the  writer  of  this 
memorial  has  ventured  to  present,  as  impartially  as 
it  could  be  gathered,  the  public  view  of  Professor 

119 


1^0  AUSTIN   PHELPS. 

Phelps's  history.  It  is  with  proud  and  perfect 
assurance  that  I  approach  the  picture  of  his  private 
life. 

There  has  been  comfort  in  the  voluntary  reassur- 
ance of  an  old  pupil  of  his :  "  Your  filial  estimate  of 
his  character  cannot  possibly  overdo  the  facts;  and 
to  paint  him  as  any  less  than  the  man  you  do  would 
be  untrue  to  them." 

Were  the  power  of  the  artist  but  proportioned  to 
the  rarity  and  beauty  of  the  subject,  there  should 
result  such  a  picture  as  should  stand  framed  in  the 
reverence  of  his  friends  as  long  as  his  memory  is 
honored  or  his  character  beloved. 

We  all  know  how  hard  it  is  to  be  all  that  we  seem. 
Some  of  us  know  the  especial  difficulties  which  beset 
the  brain-worker  when  he  values  the  possession  of  a 
symmetrical  personal  character.  In  a  human  home 
centre  all  the  blessedness  and  too  much  of  the 
weariness  of  life.  The  inevitable  jar,  the  care,  the 
strain,  the  never-lulled  anxiety,  the  friction  of 
need  upon  need  and  nature  against  nature  which 
every  household  involves,  make  more  than  the  com- 
monplace demand  upon  the  exhausted  nerve  of  the 
man  who  must  convert  creative  thought  into  public 
respect  and  daily  bread. 

"When  I  hear  one  of  his  great  speeches,"  said  the 
wife  of  a  man  more  distinguished  for  his  intellect 
than  for  his  temper,  "  when  I  listen  to  those,  I  think, 
my  child,  we  mustn't  mind  what  he  says  to  us  at 
home." 

The  great  moral  power  of  Professor  Phelps's  life, 
to  my  mind  at  least,  lay  in  its  genuineness.  He  was, 
all  through,  what  his  priestly  calling  required  him 


THE   FATHER.  121 

to  seem  to  be.     He  did  not  exist  creditably  in  out- 
side layers  and  wither  toward  the  core. 

The  character  which  proves  attractive  in  direct 
proportion  to  acquaintance  has  a  spiritual  force 
beside  which  mere  professional  pre-eminence  is  a 
little  matter.  Such  a  force  his  was.  The  world 
contains  too  many  good  husbands,  too  many  kind 
fathers,  for  us  ever  to  lose  the  evidence  of  that  high 
home  ideal  of  the  masculine  nature  which  is  needed, 
let  us  say,  at  least  as  much  as  the  "ever  womanly" 
to  sanctify  and  beautify  the  relations  of  tenderness. 
Among  these  manly  hearts  we  used  to  think  that  his 
had  certain  graces  peculiar  to  itself. 

To  an  extent  not  common  among  intellectual  men 
he  respected  the  claims  of  home-life  upon  his  per- 
sonal attention.  It  never  seemed  to  occur  to  him 
that  because  he  was  a  man,  a  professional  man,  a  lit- 
erary man,  a  man  driven  by  public  work  to  the  edge 
of  the  last  nerve,  he  was  therefore  to  be  released 
from  that  individual  devotion  to  the  family  dependent 
upon  him,  which  is  not  within  sight  when  a  man  has 
supported  and  educated  his  children  and  treated  his 
wife  with  affectionate  civility.  What  he  gave  us  he 
gave  with  the  eager  generosity  of  his  nature,  and  with 
that  matchless  tenderness  which  it  were  hard  to  make 
any  child  of  his  believe  was  not  as  much  his  own  as 
the  power  of  his  blue  eye  in  the  pulpit,  or  the  silver 
curl  that  we  cut  from  his  dead  brow.  He  was  gen- 
uine all  through  because  he  was  tender  all  through. 
His  love  was  as  trustworthy  as  the  rising  and  setting 
of  the  sun  beyond  the  windows  of  his  study.  In  the 
common  phrase,  "we  always  knew  where  to  find 
him."     He  never  failed  us. 


122  AUSTIN  PHELPS. 

In  sickness  his  devotion  was  something  extraordi- 
nary. I  doubt  if  the  memory  of  any  of  his  children 
goes  back  beyond  his  ministrations.  In  the  large 
and  little  ailments  or  illnesses  of  childhood  and 
youth  we  were  not  without  good  maternal  care,  nor 
conscious  of  any  deficiency  in  that  direction  ;  but 
which  of  us  can  recall  a  crisis  of  physical  suffering 
without  him  ?  His  was  often  the  first  eye  to  discover 
the  little  one's  need;  his  was  the  most  frequent  step 
upon  the  stairs ;  the  tireless  hand  was  his ;  his  the 
tenderest  word;  his  the  loving  invention  that 
brought  relief  or  the  hope  that  passes  for  it ;  his  the 
gentlest  watch,  the  dearest  smile,  the  longed-for 
touch ;  and  his  the  melting  face,  broken  by  the  sight 
of  a  child's  pain,  and  illuminated  by  our  relief  or 
recovery  into  something  which  we  could  only  ex- 
press in  the  old  words  which  he  had  taught  us  to 
revere :  "  And  his  countenance  was  like  the  counte- 
nance of  an  angel." 

How  did  the  exhausted  man  answer  to  our  igno- 
rant exactions  as  he  did,  and  turn  to  the  lecture,  to 
the  criticism,  to  the  sermon,  as  he  must?  How  did 
the  overwrought  man  lavish  himself  day  or  night 
upon  our  need  in  the  ivay  he  spent  himself,  and  yet 
never  neglect  the  professional  duty  under  which  he 
staggered  ? 

Thoughtless  and  clamorous,  we  took;  spendthrift 
of  fatherly  tenderness,  he  gave.  So  it  was  from  eldest 
born  to  youngest;  so  it  was  year  upon  year,  and 
from  need  unto  need;  from  babyhood  to  childhood, 
from  childhood  to  youth;  so  it  was  when  he  who 
ministered  to  us,  himself  began  to  need  the  ministra- 
tions which  he  had  poured  upon  the  lives  of  those  he 


THE   FATHER.  123 

loved;  so  it  was  even  when  he  had  passed  heyond 
the  power  to  render  to  us  what  no  one  else  ever  did 
or  could.  The  impulse  to  call  him  when  we  were 
suffering  always  sprang  to  the  lips,  even  if  it  went 
no  further;  it  leaps  to  them  yet.  His  impulse  to 
anticipate  our  call  he  never  out-lived  or  out-suffered. 
Has  he  done  so  yet? 

Once,  I  remember,  far  on  in  his  invalid  life,  one  of 
his  family,  seeking  to  spare  him  the  knowledge  of 
pain  for  which  he  was  no  longer  strong  enough  even 
to  exercise  sympathy,  had  locked  the  doors  upon  the 
situation  and  given  no  sign.  The  household,  all 
busy,  and  all  ignorant  of  the  state  of  the  case,  went 
their  ways  as  it  was  intended  that  they  should.  He 
was  in  bed  or  upon  it.  It  was  one  of  his  hardest 
days,  and  he  was  believed  to  be  quite  safe  from  any 
knowledge  of  an  incident  which  would  distress  his 
now  helpless  tenderness  to  no  useful  end. 

But  by  and  by  there  crept  down  the  stairs  and 
sounded  through  the  long  hall  that  heavy,  feeble 
step  which  could  not  keep  away  from  the  need  that 
his  fine  insight  alone  suspected.  Then  fell  upon  the 
door  that  dear  finger-tap  peculiar  to  himself  which 
we  all  knew  by  heart,  and  which  none  of  us  could 
mistake  though  it  fell  upon  the  Golden  Gates  them- 
selves, we  waiting  on  the  hither  side  for  some  one 
to  help  us  through.  There  was  no  denying  entrance 
to  thoughtfulness  like  his.  There  was  no  resisting 
his  divine  instinct  to  relieve  suffering.  In  a  few 
moments  the  sick  man,  scouring  the  house  for  the 
means  of  relief,  which  only  he  would  ever  have 
thought  of,  had  conquered  the  emergency.  When 
this  was  done,  he  crawled  back  to  his  own  bed. 


124  AUSTIN  PHELPS. 

In  all  other  forms  of  need  or  dependence  the  story 
was  the  same.  It  ran  on,  like  a  beautiful  serial, 
from  chapter  to  chapter  of  our  young  lives.  Else- 
where we  do  not  turn  such  pages.  It  used  to  be  our 
belief,  and  time  has  not  yet  shaken  it,  that  he  lav- 
ished more  thought  and  feeling,  more  study  and 
sympathy,  more  attention  and  devotion,  upon  his 
children  in  one  year  than  most  of  the  quite  comfort- 
able young  people  whom  we  knew  received  from 
busy  fathers  in  six-fold  that  time. 

The  study  was  never  a  growlery.  It  was  the 
heart  of  home.  We  were  never  exiled  from  that 
shelter  of  toil  and  peace.  It  was  the  living-room 
and  it  was  the  loving-room  of  the  house.  Often 
now,  we  wonder  how  he  worked,  with  five  noisy  chil- 
dren tramping  and  shouting  over  that  great  echoing 
house,  so  little  checked,  so  seldom  rebuked  or  re- 
quired by  him  to  restrain  their  unhomiletical  occu- 
pations for  his  sake. 

Of  course,  at  times  the  key  was  turned  in  the 
study  door.  Then  we  knew  that  the  work  was  too 
close,  or  the  weariness  too  sore,  for  us  to  be  wel- 
comed. We  respected  that  key.  It  was  our  habit 
to  steal  on  tiptoe  (if  we  were  so  far  thoughtful)  up 
through  the  dim  hall  and  peep  into  the  lock  to  see  if 
it  were  closed.  But  it  had  to  be  to  keep  us  out. 
Only  this  definite  hint  could  convince  his  family 
that  there  could  be  occasions  when  they  were  not 
wanted  in  that  temple  of  tenderness  and  rest.  From 
the  beginning  of  the  sweet,  rare  story,  he  was 
the  first,  best,  truest  —  sometimes,  we  thought,  the 
only  — friend  we  had  in  the  world.  If  ever  a  father 
succeeded  in  successfully  cultivating  the  acquaint- 


THE   FATHER.  125 


ance  of  his  children,  he  was  that  father.     We  had 
few  secrets  from  him.     Our  young  lives  turned  to 
him  as  naturally,  as  utterly,  as  the  keel  turns  to  the 
hand  at  the  helm.     Had  we  a  trouble ?-  Where  was 
he?     From  a  toothache  to  a  heartache,  we  flung  it 
upon  his  sympathy,  which  closed  about  it  and  us  as 
the  divine  power  seems  to  close  about  the  crises  of 
mature   life.     What  was   temptation?     Take   it  to 
Urn.     Stern  as  the  angel  of  the  moral  law,  but  melt- 
ins  as  the  movement  of  our  own  natures  after     that 
which  makes  for  righteousness,"  his  yearning  heart 
answered  to  our  little  faults  and  penitence.     With 
all  that  throbbing  tenderness   and  sympathy  which 
would  have  offered  his  life  to  save  a  child  from  pam, 
he  never  "indulged,"  as  the  phrase  goes   below  the 
standard  of  strength.     The  moral  ideal  the  spiritual 
truth,  must  not  be  degraded  because  father    loved 
their  children.     Very  early  we  found  that  out.     We 
never    expected    namby-pamby   sympathy   or   senti- 
mental liberality  from  him. 

To  disobey  him  was  incredible.      His  word  was 
"like  the  law  of  the  Lord."     To  tell  him  the  utter 
truth  was  inevitable.     He  and  honor  were  one  thing 
in  our  minds.     The  scene  in  the  study  when  one  of 
his  eldest  children  told  the  first  lie  is  too  well  re- 
membered.    The  child  was  seven,  and  the  falsehood 
was  proved  and  acknowledged.     To  the  young  father 
this  commonplace  incident  was  a  heart-rending  expe- 
rience.     He  had   come   home   from  a  journey,   ex- 
hausted; but  the  moral  crisis  must  not  wait    or  a 
man  to  rest.     The  awe  in  the  little  offender  s  heart 
when  the  fatigue  of  travel  deepened  on  that  sensi- 
tive face    into   the  deadly  pallor  of   overwhelming 


126  AUSTIN   PHELPS. 

emotion  cannot  be  forgotten  yet.  He  spoke  to  the 
child  in  a  low,  stern  yet  quivering  voice  such  as 
befitted  the  solemnity  of  some  tremendous  moral 
event.  It  ceased  to  be  an  event  —  it  became  an 
epoch  to  have  uttered  a  falsehood.  He  spoke  of  the 
holiness  of  truth  and  the  beauty  of  honor;  he  dwelt 
in  language  quite  clear  to  the  child's  mind  on  the 
enormity  of  that  little  act.  Beneath  his  breath  he 
touched  for  a  moment  upon  the  tendency  of  falseness 
in  the  heart.  Liars,  he  said,  in  an  awestruck,  all 
but  inaudible  tone,  liars  went  to  hell.  But  then 
and  there,  before  the  child  could  cower  beneath  the 
moral  shock  of  his  displeasure, —  a  displeasure  which, 
coming  from  that  ideal  of  fatherly  gentleness,  seemed 
like  the  rebuke  of  offended  God  Himself, —  this  too 
human  father  bowed  his  face  and  wept  bitterly. 

Those  heavy  sobs,  that  melting  sight,  never  heard 
or  seen  before  or  since,  effected  what  word  or  rod 
could  not  have  done.  Awed  into  shame,  silenced  by 
this  revelation  of  the  truth  that  no  soul  sinneth  to 
itself,  the  child  crept  to  his  feet  and  sobbed  with 
him.  At  that  hour  was  the  abhorrence  of  dishonor 
born  in  the  heart.     That  lie  was  the  last. 

It  might  be  added  that  this  first  lesson  in  the 
father's  creed  of  moral  retribution  was  almost  the 
last.  No  more  was  needed.  That  child,  at  least, 
required  no  damnatory  hymns  or  threatening  doc- 
trine to  complete  a  religious  training.  The  father's 
belief  was  a  terrific,  and  in  so  far,  it  must  be  owned, 
a  beneficent  moral  fact  in  that  young  life.  This 
union  of  human  theology  with  what  might  be  called 
divine  tenderness  was  characteristic  of  the  man. 

As   his    children   gained   in   years,   his  power  of 


THE   FATHER.  127 

parental  divination  gained  with  them.  His  matur- 
ing sons  did  not  grow  away  from  him.  That  dream 
of  fatherhood  which  had  blessed  their  childhood  pro- 
tected their  youth.  The  darkest  hour  of  college 
temptation  was  shared,  first  or  last,  with  him.  The 
boyish  religious  skepticism,  inevitable  to  a  thought- 
ful mind,  went  as  straight  to  him  as  the  evening 
prayer  had  gone  when  the  baby's  face  hid  upon  his 
knee,  and  the  baby's  heart,  possibly  a  little  perplexed 
whether  one  were  praying  to  God  or  to  "  Papa,"  poured 
out  the  joys  and  trouble  of  a  summer  day. 

It  was  a  little  thing,  but  it  was  one  of  the  little 
tilings  that  bespeak  great  ones,  that  this  affectionate 
title,  usually  dropped  behind  with  childhood,  never 
left  the  lips  of  his  grown  children.  In  the  fulness  of 
manhood  his  sons  were  not  ashamed  of  the  dear  word 
by  which  their  infancy  had  known  him.  To  the  end 
he  was  to  them  what  the  beginning  made  him.  To 
this  day  the  more  stately  parental  appellation  remains 
a  term  of  formality  adapted  to  the  presence  of  stran- 
gers. The  ineffable  tenderness  which  made  him 
what  he  was  to  our  young  needs,  bound  our  man- 
hood and  womanhood  to  him  with  a  peculiarly 
dependent  continuity  of  which  this  little  fact  was 
only  the  pretty  symbol. 

Among  the  letters,  which  will  form  the  most  val- 
uable pages  of  this  book,  will  be  found  specimens  of 
his  correspondence  with  his  children,  which  cannot 
be  without  interest  for  any  one  who  had  interest  in 
him  or  in  the  parental  type  which  they  express.  As 
noticeable  as  their  tenderness  and  that  sensitive 
thoughtfulness  which  he  never  lost  for  any  living 
creature  who  had  claims  upon  him,  is  the  impressive 


128  AUSTIN  PHELPS. 

evidence  of  respect  which  these  letters  offer  to  the 
child.  Such  lavish  expenditure  of  intellect  and  feeling 
is  not  too  usual  in  the  relation  of  fathers  to  children. 
Thought  enough  and  painstaking  care  enough  went 
into  many  of  those  letters,  which  were  never  expected 
to  go  beyond  the  pocket  of  a  careless  boy  or  girl,  to 
have  formed  the  basis  of  a  useful  piece  of  literary 
labor.  Let  them  do  their  best  now  to  atone  for  the 
sacrifice. 

He  was  an  impulsive  man,  for  all  his  godly  qual- 
ities, and  sometimes  he  spoke  quickly.  I  do  not 
remember  that  he  was  ever  cross,  or  that  he  ever 
scolded.  These  common  phases  of  masculine  expres- 
sion seem  to  have  been  morally  beneath  him  —  per- 
haps by  some  high  legacy  of  character,  they  were 
unnatural  to  him.  Something  of  his  mother's  sweet, 
uncomplaining  temperament  was  in  the  sturdier  soul 
of  the  son.  Still,  he  was  not  without  moments  of 
impulsive  ardor,  when  the  exactions  or  defects  of  a 
family  would  bring  the  stinging  word  leaping  to  his 
delicate  lips.  More  often  they  closed  in  that  silent 
scorn  which  we  felt  to  be  the  keenest  rebuke  we 
ever  had  from  him.  Before  a  certain  turn  at  the 
corners  of  his  mouth,  any  sensitive  child  would  hang 
the  head  and  creep  away,  more  severely  punished 
than  if  a  sermon  or  a  tirade  or  a  physical  pain  had 
struck  the  offence  or  the  offender. 

Yet,  when  he  did  speak  a  little  too  soon,  he  was 
so  afraid  that  he  had  wronged  the  child,  he  was  so 
grieved  lest  he  had  seemed  to  lose  a  temper  which 
really,  I  think,  he  seldom  or  never  did,  that  nothing 
could  undo  the  possible  mistake  quickly  or  kindly 
enough.     Then    how    his    heart   moved   toward   us! 


THE  FATHER.  129 

How  that  swift  tenderness  started  on  wings  to  ns! 
It  flew  and  enfolded  us  like  an  angel.  We  crept 
under  it,  resolved  and  comforted  and  repentant.  At 
those  moments  a  kind  of  worship  arose  in  the  heart 
of  the  child  who  had  been  treated  with  a  father's 
respect  and  regret.  It  was  one  of  the  rare  things 
about  him,  that  he  was  not  ashamed  to  apologize  to 
the  child  whom  he  might  have  wronged.  The  few 
occasions  upon  which  this  happened  made  profound 
impression  upon  the  moral  characters  which  his  was 
forming.  Of  that  simple  nobility,  which  of  us  ever 
took  a  low  advantage  ?     It  was  a  thing  too  high. 

More  often,  when  the  case  did  not  reach  the  limits 
of  parental  mistake,  his  fine  sensibility  quivered  over 
some  small  scene  in  which  he  fancied  himself  too 
severe.  Then  came  the  little  sign  of  love  to  be 
treasured  as  long  as  one  can  treasure  anything. 
Sometimes  it  was  a  journey  up  stairs  to  the  locked 
room  to  say  the  word  of  reassuring  tenderness;  or 
it  was  a  kiss  without  a  word;  or  it  was  a  silent 
pressure  of  the  hand.  Perhaps  it  was  some  little 
gift  —  a  book,  a  flower,  or  a  trifle  for  the  always 
empty  pocket  of  the  boy.  Again,  we  found  on  our 
table  at  night  a  card,  a  note :  — 

"Dear  son"  or  "Dear  daughter:  I  didn't  mean  to 
scold  you.     Good  night." 

Or,  "  My  dear  child :  I  have  thought  much  of  you 
to-day.  My  heart  is  with  you  in  all  your  thoughts 
and  longings.     Papa." 

Tenderness  like  this  lent  a  kind  of  romance  to  his 
relations  with  his  children.  "He  had  a  magnetic 
power  over  all  his  boys,"  said  one  of  his  grown  sons. 

But  what  can  we  say?     When  the  pen  tries  to  tell 


130  AUSTIN   PHELPS. 

the  story,  it  falters  too  much  to  tell  it  as  it  should  be 
told  to  give  to  those  who  loved  him,  but  knew  not 
why  as  well  as  we  did,  any  just  estimate  of  what 
was  the  finest,  and  perhaps  in  the  vision  of  spirits 
the  greatest,  aspect  of  the  man  —  his  fatherhood. 
This  only,  without  tinge  of  exaggerated  feeling, 
should  be  added :  That  supreme  tenderness  mingled 
with  that  firm  rectitude  of  government,  that  utter 
self-sacrifice,  that  tireless  care,  that  bountiful  for- 
giveness, and  that  ideal  of  moral  nobility  which  he 
translated  to  our  souls  through  the  medium  of  per- 
fect love, —  these  are  the  memories  which  have  made 
the  conception  of  a  loving  God  seem  reasonable  to 
us  in  these  days  when  the  faith  of  man  is  sorely  tried, 
and  when  clouds  and  darkness  are  around  the  throne 
of  Him  whom  the  religious  instinct  of  the  ages 
searches  with  bitter  tears.  We  have  been  taught 
what  parental  love  at  its  highest  form  may  be  and 
do.  It  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  this  earthly 
father  gave  us  that  solemn  trust  in,  to  a  certain 
extent  gave  us  that  comprehension  of,  the  fatherly 
qualities  which  lead  the  groping  soul  to  say:  "If 
the  Heavenly  Father  is  like  that,  I  shall  not  find  it 
hard  to  be  His  loving  child." 

It  is  apt  to  be  through  the  best  part  of  us  that  we 
receive  the  worst  of  earthly  discipline.  And  it  was 
through  Professor  Phelps's  own  beautifully  devel- 
oped fatherhood  that  one  of  the  crudest  sorrows  of 
his  life  was  destined  to  strike  home  to  his  heart. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

SHUT  IN. 


One  of  the  stories  which  Professor  Phelps  used  to 
tell  with  keen  appreciation  was  that  of  the  man  who 
"always  made  it  a  point  to  keep  away  from  unhappy 
people."      A   similar   instinct    exists    in  the  wel 
towards  the  sick.     From   Goethe,  criticising j  Schil- 
ler for  his  "pathological  poetry"  down  to  the  last 
light  gossip  who  tosses  the  reputation  of  an  invalid 
neighbor  about  as  the  devil  tosses  the  souk  of  the 
damned  on  a  pitchfork  in  the  "mad  painter  s     old 
sketch,  runs  the  same  difficulty  in  comprehending  - 
perhaps  the  same    reluctance   to   W*^~™ 
conditions  of  a  being  less  physically  fortunate  than 

When  a  man  has  been  twenty  years  an  invalid, 
and  when  much  of  his  work  has  been  done  at  the 
odds  of  such  a  history,  it  is  impossible  to  ignore  the 
uncheerful  fact.  One  cannot  altogether  "get  away 
from  the  unhappy"  circumstance.  A  few  words, 
however,  will  cover  the  subject  better  than  many ; 
and  into  these  few  let  us  compress  what  we  have  left 
to  say  about  the  invalid  years  of  Professor  Phelps. 

It  should  be  clearly  understood  that  his  battle  tor 
recovery  was  as  brave,  long,  and  vigorous  as  his 
patience  under  defeat  was  memorable.  In  the  course 
of  a  varied  experiment  of  medical  treatment,  he  was 


132  AUSTIN   PHELPS. 

the  subject  of  some  professional  mistakes,  which, 
while  they  may  have  prolonged  his  life,  added  in 
certain  respects  to  his  sufferings,  or  substituted 
others  in  their  places.  The  ignorance  of  our  most 
enlightened  science  in  the  management  of  nervous 
disease  is  nothing  less  than  appalling.  Anything 
else  may  be  understood;  almost  anything  else  may 
be  intelligently  controlled.  There  are  ruffian  souls 
that  cast  the  word  "hypochondriac  " — a  vitriol  — on 
the  bare  nerve  of  suffering  nobly  borne  and  ignobly 
interpreted. 

It  is  a  matter  of  history  that  in  the  days  of  the 
Most  Holy  Catholic  Inquisition  there  was  found  one 
torture  supreme  above  all  others ;  one  surest  to  com- 
pel the  renunciation  of  faith,  the  sacrifice  of  honor; 
one  which  human  nerve  found  itself  most  helpless  to 
resist,  and  human  will  most  hopeless  of  defying;  one 
above  all  the  ingenuities  of  intelligent  cruelty  most 
dreaded  by  the  accused,  and  most  abhorred  by  the 
quivering  memory  of  the  victim.  This  was  the  tor- 
ture of  enforced  sleeplessness.  It  is  said  that  four 
or  five  nights  and  days  of  this  ecclesiastical  amuse- 
ment were  sufficient  to  bring  the  most  refractory 
heretic  to  abject  terms. 

As  the  illness  of  Professor  Phelps  advanced,  cer- 
tain traits  in  his  character  never  half  appreciated, 
perhaps  never  half  perceived  by  his  friends,  began  to 
develop  in  him,  like  militia  under  drill  for  an  unex- 
pected war. 

First  and  finest  of  these  was  his  heroic  patience. 
It  is  doubtful  if  he  had  ever  been  thought  a  particu- 
larly patient  man  before ;  this  high  grace  had  lacked 


SHUT   IN.  133 

the  chance  to  perform  her  perfect  work  upon  the 
busy,  stirring  man.  Now  came  the  opportunity  to 
achieve  that  close  moral  conquest,  —  to  an  active 
brain  and  urgent  will  and  feverish  aspiration  one  of 
the  hardest  in  life. 

It  is  the  peculiarity  of  this  quality,  that  its  very 
essence  leads  to  forms  which  prevent  early  or  easy 
recognition.  A  virtue  that  speaks  or  shouts  or  does 
or  dares  we  cannot  overlook.  The  grace  which  says 
nothing  is  the  last  to  attract  the  attention  of  speak- 
ing, shouting,  doing,  daring  spectators.  How  long 
had  he  been  so  still,  so  gentle,  so  uncomplaining, 
before  we  found  out  that  one  of  God's  most  patient 
souls  dwelt  like  a  dumb  angel  in  that  tottering 
house  of  clay  ? 

To  some  of  us  the  discovery  came  in  a  moment's 
revelation.  What  was  it?  — a  turn  of  the  head? 
the  falling  of  an  eyelid?  or  a  quiver  in  the  voice? 
To  some  it  was  a  slower  lesson.  We  learned  it  early 
in  those  long  years  when  pain  and  sympathy  con- 
fronted each  other,  daily  guests  in  the  old  white 
house ;  or  we  did  not  learn  it  till  the  end  approached. 
To  all  of  us  it  was  a  gospel  —  that  gospel  of  unself- 
ish endurance  which,  once  received  into  the  heart's 
life,  never  eludes  it.  "  You  draw  a  picture  of  what  I 
try  to  be,"  he  said  gently  once,  when  something  was 
said  to  him  of  this  marvellous  patience. 

His  incessant  thoughtfulness  for  other  people,  his 
eager  effort  to  save  trouble,  his  silence  about  his  own 
worst  suffering,  his  unvarying  —  one  might  almost 
say  celestial  —  sweet  temper,  were  in  high  contrast 
with  the  spirit  in  which  he  was  sometimes  misun- 
derstood by  those  who  did  not  know  him.  We  who 
did,  have  our  facts,  and  we  hold  them  precious, 


134  AUSTIN   PHELPS. 

Is  it  ever  worth  while  to  be  the  prisoner  of  pain 
for  the  better  part  of  a  man's  life, —  to  be  stricken 
from  the  ranks  of  the  righting,  down  into  the  dust, 
underneath  foot  of  horse  and  soldier,  there  to  lie 

"  Unable  or  to  move  or  die  "  ? 

Is  it  ever  worth  it  in  God's  awful  economy  of  spirit- 
ual forces  in  order  to  teach  the  restless  "  insolence  of 
health "  what  patience  means,  what  resignation  is, 
what  trust  may  do  ?  If  it  ever  is,  those  twenty  years 
have  not  been  wasted. 

It  is  touching  to  remember  how  little  he  said  in 
all  that  time  of  what  it  cost  him  to  surrender  his  life's 
work  in  the  prime  of  his  strength  and  at  the  summit 
of  his  usefulness  and  success. 

In  his  books  he  has  once  or  twice  given  to  his 
public,  as  a  reserved  soul  sometimes  will,  a  kind  of 
pathetic  confidence  withheld  from  the  nearest  friend. 

In  the  essay  which  he  calls  "  The  Premature  Clos- 
ing of  a  Life's  Work,"1  he  says  of  such  sufferers: 
"They  are  peremptorily  stopped  in  their  career  of 
usefulness.  The  work  so  dear  to  them,  never  dearer 
than  now,  is  passed  over  to  the  hands  of  others. 
When  everything  promises  to  them  prolonged  suc- 
cess, and  the  winding  up  of  their  career  by  some 
achievement  of  signal  value  to  the  world,  they  come 
suddenly  against  a  wall  of  adamant.  They  are  shut 
in;  cannot  take  another  step.  .  .  .  Such  unlooked- 
for  disappointments,  which  no  human  wisdom  would 
have  planned,  often  come  violently.  They  seem  like 
a  buffet  in  the  face.  They  resemble  the  dislocation 
of  one's  very  bones. 

1  "My  Portfolio," 


SHUT   IN.  135 

"With  one  consent  they  all  say,  'We  never  were 
so  well  prepared  for  our  work  as  now. '  These  for- 
bidden builders  are  a  great  multitude.  Others  rear 
with  songs  the  superstructure  of  which  they  have 
laid  the  foundation  with  tears.  Their  work  is  un- 
derground, out  of  sight.  Their  more  fortunate  suc- 
cessors are  the  men  whom  the  world  knows  and 
honors.  They  have  gathered  the  gold  and  the  cedar 
and  the  ships  of  transport  and  the  cunning  work- 
men ;  but  others  have  the  glory  of  using  these  to  the 
grand  purpose,  and,  what  is  vastly  more,  the  joy  of 
the  doing  of  it.  Look  around;  you  find  the  world 
full  of  these  arrested,  rebuffed,  disappointed,  though 
willing  —  oh,  how  willing !  —  workers. 

"Why  is  it  that  some  good  men  must  go  down 
life's  last  decade  with  the  tottering  limbs  of  a  sec- 
ond infancy?  Sad,  unspeakably  sad,  is  that  com- 
ment which  we  sometimes  have  to  make  upon  one 
whom  the  world  has  honored  with  its  trust  in  high 
places :  '  He  has  been  a  learned  man,  a  wise  man,  a 
great  man;  but  now — ■'  So  strange  a  humiliation 
of  a  great  mind  and  an  heir  of  God  must  have  some- 
thing to  do  with  its  preparation  for  an  immortal 
youth.  '  Except  ye  become  as  little  children. ' 
Some  may  not  be  able  to  become  that,  except 
through  the  vale  of  second  childhood.  That  earthly 
silence  may  be  the  great  opportunity  preparative  to 
fitness  for  a  service  in  the  coming  life,  compared 
with  which  the  grandest  service  of  this  life  is  but 
infantile.  The  sleep  of  the  chrysalis  is  the  fore- 
runner of  golden  glory.  If  one  can  but  believe  that 
God's  plan  is  made  up  of  such  inspiring  mysteries ! 
Yet  why  not?  .  .  .    Why  should  we  not  believe  that 


136  AUSTIN"   PHELPS. 

God's  reasons  for  things  are  like  Him  ?  '  It  must  be 
His  doing,'  as  Charles  Kingsley  said,  'because  it  is 
so  strange  and  so  painful.'  None  but  an  infinite 
mind  could  plan  some  things  as  they  are  in  the  lives 
of  us  all,  and  yet  make  them  come  out  right  in  the 
end." 

Elsewhere  1  he  has  spoken  more  frankly  and  more 
pathetically :  — 

"  The  bodily  sensations  which  no  well  friend  can 
understand;  the  inexpressible  mental  weariness 
which  a  healthy  brain  cannot  conceive  of;  the  abso- 
lute forgetfulness  of  what  healthy  sensation  is,  which 
makes  it  impossible  for  a  sick  man  to  enter  into  the 
spring-tide  of  life  around  him;  the  suppression  of 
speech  about  his  own  condition  through  fear  of  being 
a  discomfort  to  his  friends ;  the  struggle  to  be  silent 
when  speech  if  indulged  would  be  irritable;  the 
nights  of  watching  when  he  can  almost  hear  the 
breathing  of  the  world  asleep,  and  when  he  seems  to 
have  more  companionship  with  creatures  of  the  dark- 
ness than  with  his  own  kind;  and,  above  all,  the 
forced  withdrawal  from  the  labors  of  past  years,  with 
the  closing  up  of  the  little  space  which  he  occupied 
in  the  world's  thoughts,  and  the  drooping  of  his 
friendships  because  of  his  inability  to  cultivate  them, 
■ — in  short,  that  consciousness,  premonitory  of  the 
grave,  that  the  world  is  sweeping  by  him  and  over 
him, —  all  these  peculiarities  of  an  invalid's  life 
force  him  back,  perhaps  from  all  human  ties. 

"  They  tend  to  create  a  sense  of  isolation,  from 
which  no  relief  is  practicable  if  it  does  not  help  him 

1  "The  Solitude  of  Christ." 


SHUT  IN.  137 

to  come  into  sympathy  with  Christ's  solitude,  and 
help  him  to  know  Christ's  sympathy  with  him. 

"It  is  well  that  an  invalid  should  be  sensible  of 
the  danger  of  a  morbid  piety  in  a  morbid  body. 
Jealousy  of  himself  just  here  can  do  no  harm.  Yet 
when  disease  plainly  crowds  him  into  moral  loneli- 
ness, he  cannot  be  mistaken  in  using  it  as  one  of 
God's  expedients  for  schooling  him.  You  cannot 
go  wrong  if  practically  your  soul  comes  nearer  to 
Christ.  We  do  not  know  that  it  matters  much 
whether  we  get  there  by  the  easiest  way  or  not." 

In  1873  Professor  Phelps  removed  for  the  summer 
to  Ripton,  Vt.,  where  for  several  seasons  he  seemed 
to  gain  strength  in  the  tonic  of  the  mountain  air. 
When  his  failing  system  had  exhausted  this  expe- 
dient, he  was  taken,  as  a  desperate  experiment,  to 
Bar  Harbor,  Me.  The  long  journey  was  serious  for 
so  ill  a  man,  and  it  was  certain  to  none  of  us  that  he 
might  not  die  upon  the  way.  In  this  grave  and 
difficult  decision  his  eldest  son's  was  the  deciding 
voice,  to  which  his  father  listened  with  the  docility 
of  the  peculiar  love  which  he  always  cherished  for 
this  treasured  child. 

With  the  utmost  tenderness  to  us  all  and  the  most 
conscientious  desire  to  treat  every  child  of  his  with 
equal  devotion,  it  was  always  true  that  he  held  his 
son  Stuart  in  a  kind  of  heart's  relationship  with 
which  conscience  and  equality  have  nothing  to  do. 
This  we  all  understood.  No  word  ever  said  it,  no 
act  of  undue  partiality  ever  betrayed  it ;  but  the  fact 
was  accepted  readily  as  it  was  happily  by  us  all. 
The  sunny-hearted,  cool-headed  boy,  whose  tempera- 
ment was  so  congenial  to  his  father,  and  whose  filial 


138  AUSTIN   PHELPS. 

service  was  so  useful  to  him  in  emergencies  where 
no  one  else  knew  just  what  to  do  or  how  to  do  it, 
had  woven  himself  too  deeply  into  that  life,  already 
overborne  with  sorrow. 

This  eldest  son,  still  well  remembered  by  his 
pupils  and  in  collegiate  circles  as  a  promising  young 
psychologist,  was  at  the  time  of  his  death  the  Pro- 
fessor of  Metaphysics  at  Smith  College.  Well 
trained  for  his  specialty,  and  succeeding  in  it,  he 
had  gratified  his  father's  natural  ambition  for  him, 
and  gave  every  pledge  for  a  future  full  of  intel- 
lectual power  and  practical  value.  With  a  very  lov- 
able personal  character,  he  had  —  we  never  wondered 
why  —  endeared  himself  pathetically  to  that  which 
is  more  clamorous  than  ambition  in  the  soul  of  a 
loving  man :  he  was  his  father's  treasure,  he  was  the 
well-beloved  son. 

During  the  inevitable  perplexities  of  those  invalid 
years  this  child  had  been  the  staff  of  life  to  the 
shaken  man.  The  management  of  all  doubts  and 
difficulties  arising  out  of  the  question  of  resigning 
the  chair  at  Andover  which  beset  that  troubled  time, 
came  eventually  into  this  young  man's  hands. 
Through  them  went  at  last  to  the  trustees  of  the 
institution,  in  1879,  the  irrevocable  decision  by 
which  Professor  Phelps  abandoned  his  active  con- 
nection with  the  Seminary,  retaining  the  Emeritus, 
and  the  hope  of  being  able  to  accede  to  the  urgent 
wish  that  he  might  continue  to  give  occasional  lec- 
tures. This  hope  the  advance  of  his  disease  soon 
thwarted. 

It  is  pathetic  to  find  carefully  preserved  among 
his  papers  both  the  official  and  the  personal  letters 


SHUT  IN.  139 

coming  from  the  Board  of  Trustees  when  it  was  finally 
forced  to  accept  his  resignation. 

These  letters  express  a  bereavement  which  is  not 
so  common  under  such  circumstances  that  it  did  not 
deeply  move  the  sick  and  sensitive  man. 

"  I  cannot  allow  our  vote  as  a  Board  of  Trustees  to 
go  to  you,"  ran  one  of  these  letters,  "without  adding 
a  personal  word  as  one  of  the  number,  expressing,  I 
am  sure,  the  feeling  of  every  gentleman  upon  the 
Board.  .  .  .  We  regard  the  loss  as  irreparable.  .  .  . 
We  only  submit  to  what  seems  to  be  inevitable.  .  .  . 
No  words  from  the  Board  of  Trustees  as  a  body,  or 
from  any  member  of  the  Board,  can  ever  express  what 
we  all  feel  —  our  gratitude  to  God  for  that  tower  of 
strength  which  the  Lord  has  enabled  you  to  be  to 
Andover  Seminary  for  more  than  thirty  years." 

The  effort  to  give  occasional  service  was  consci- 
entiously made.  There  was  something  pitiful  about 
those  last  struggles  to  meet  the  needs  and  wishes  of 
the  Seminary.  Sometimes  the  class  came  to  his  own 
house,  he  being  too  ill  to  leave  it;  and  there,  in  his 
large  dining-room,  his  affectionate  students  took 
those  few  final  notes  which  many  of  them  cherish  to 
this  day.  Often  he  rose  from  his  bed  and  tottered 
into  his  carriage  to  reach  the  lecture-room.  It  was  a 
distress  to  him  that  he  could  no  longer  stand  at  his 
desk.  His  broken  voice  faltered  in  the  few  words  of 
prayer  with  which,  as  his  wont  was,  he  opened  the 
lecture  hour. 

It  is  said  that  a  touching  scene  took  place  in  that 
old  Senior  class-room  when,  after  a  prolonged  absence 
from  service,  he  returned  for  one  more  —  it  proved  to 
be  his  last  —  experiment  at  his  post  of  service.     The 


140  AUSTIN   PHELPS. 

students  had  abandoned  hope  of  any  more  instruction 
from  Professor  Phelps,  and  the  announcement  of  an 
actual  appointment  to  meet  them  was  an  event  in 
the  Seminary.  The  lecture-room  was  filled  and 
quiet.  As  the  sick  man  came  in,  supported  by  his 
son,  and  turned  feebly  toward  the  platform,  the 
audience  rose  by  one  instinct  to  its  feet.  In  perfect 
silence,  and  with  bowed,  reverent  faces,  the  stu- 
dents received  the  beloved  Professor  whom  God  had 
stricken.  Alwa}Ts  sensitive  —  too  sensitive  —  to  the 
signs  of  affection  in  his  pupils,  he  was  overcome  by 
this  little  tribute.  His  blanched  face  quivered,  he 
tried  to  speak,  but  bowed  his  head  on  his  desk  and 
struggled  to  regain  himself  before  his  class.  He 
never  could  refer  to  that  moment  after  it  had  passed ; 
it  meant 

"What  lip  of  man  can  never  frame, 
The  prescience  that  hath  no  name." 

What  it  signified  of  desperate  hope  and  mute  de- 
spair, what  it  held  of  gentle  acquiescence  in  the  will 
of  God  and  of  untold  entreaty  that  the  cup  might 
even  yet  pass  from  him,  God  only  knows.  What 
such  a  moment  was  to  such  a  man,  one  must  pass 
through  a  similar  situation  with  a  kindred  tempera- 
ment to  understand. 

In  these  dark  hours  the  good  judgment  and  loving 
aid  of  his  first-born  son  drew  father  and  child  to- 
gether with  a  bond  so  close  and  so  tender  that  we 
did  not  even  tremble  or  wonder  or  say,  "What  if 
this  came  to  an  end  ?  "  It  never  occurred  to  any  of 
us  that  it  could  end. 

In    August,    1883,    Professor   M.    Stuart  Phelps 


SHUT   IN.  141 

went  to  the  forests  of  Maine  for  his  vacation  hunting- 
trip.  He  was  a  good  shot,  an  experienced  woods- 
man, and  a  cool,  cautious,  unimpulsive  man.  No 
one  gave  an  hour's  anxiety  to  his  vacations.  He 
was  the  last  one  in  the  family  on  whom  we  thought 
it  necessary  to  expend  a  worry  or  a  rational  fear. 

He  went  to  Bar  Harbor,  to  the  cottage  which  Pro- 
fessor Phelps  had  built  in  that  beautiful  spot,  and 
which  he  loved  probably  more  than  any  home  he 
ever  had  on  earth.  There  father  and  son  endeared 
themselves  to  each  other  anew  for  a  little  space,  in 
the  blessed  ignorance  of  fate  which  God  vouchsafes 
to  our  weakness;  then,  without  a  fear,  without  a 
premonition,  they  parted. 

The  young  professor  went  into  the  woods  with  his 
friend,  Rev.  Newman  Smythe,  of  New  Haven.  He  was 
gone  but  a  few  days.  On  the  morning  of  August 
29th  he  called  to  his  Indian  guide  to  row  down  the 
lake  with  him  alone  for  a  time.  "Come,  Joe,"  he 
said,  laughing,  "let  us  go  on."  His  foot  slipped  in 
the  mud;  the  trigger  of  his  loaded  gun  caught  on 
the  gunwale;  the  full  discharge  lodged  in  the  base 
of  the  brain ;  he  fell  on  the  shores  of  the  lake,  sixty 
miles  in  the  forest,  and  as  far  from  sign  of  human 
habitation  or  chance  of  human  help. 

By  the  mercy  of  God  death  was  instant.  Borne 
on  the  shoulders  of  his  Indian  guides,  and  accompa- 
nied by  his  shocked  and  shaken  friend,  by  canoe,  and 
through  "carry,"  he  was  brought  out  of  the  wilder- 
ness, and  the  telegram  went  that  night  to  his  poor 
father. 


CHAPTER   XIII. 

LAST   YEARS. 

"It  will  kill  him!  It  will  kill  that  invalid 
father  !  " 

From  friend  to  friend  the  prophecy  leaped.  Few 
of  us  expected  any  other  result.  Those  who  knew 
the  full  extent  of  his  physical  decline,  and  who 
knew  what  the  cherished  child  was  to  the  sinking 
man,  looked  hourly  for  the  despatch  which  should 
say,  "He,  too!" 

In  the  thickest  of  that  black  hour  his  still  healthy 
and  strong  soul  took  us  all  by  surprise.  It  arose 
like  a  dying  soldier,  and  struck  out  with  its  crippled 
power  and  hewed  about  it,  and  fought  mightily  for 
the  trust  and  for  the  courage  of  a  Christian  believer, 
whose  God  could  do  no  wrong.  He  won  his  battle 
—  all  who  knew  him  well  remember  how.  After 
the  first  mortal  cry  he  closed  his  trembling  lips  and 
bore  the  vital  stroke  as  a  brave  man  may. 

On  the  night  when  the  word  reached  the  cottage 
at  Bar  Harbor,  his  wife,  whose  devotion  and  affection 
were  the  staff  and  comfort  of  his  invalid  years, 
sought  to  keep  the  truth  from  him  till  morning,  hop- 
ing by  one  night's  possible  rest  to  secure  a  little 
strength  for  him  whereby  to  meet  the  blow.  Her 
face  betrayed  her,  and  when  she  came  in  her  usual 
self-possessed  way  to  offer  the  evening  reading  with 
142 


LAST  YEARS.  143 

which  it  was  her  habit  to  minister  to  him,  he  turned 
suddenly,  and  said :  — 

"Mary!  one  of  the  children  is  dead !  .  .  .  Which 
is  it  ?    Is  it  Stuart  ?  or ?  " 

"After  this,"  he  wrote  that  autumn  to  a  friend, 
"after  this,  anything  may  happen." 

Perhaps  the  worst  hour  of  all  was  when  the  locked 
trunk  came  from  the  Maine  forest  to  the  gay  Bar 
Harbor  shore. 

The  father  would  suffer  no  hand  but  his  own  to 
touch  those  pitiful  relics.  For  hours  he  remained 
locked  into  his  room  with  them.  Even  his  wife  was 
denied  entrance,  and  those  who  listened  without  the 
door,  fearing  a  mortal  turn  to  the  scene  which  no  one 
could  interrupt,  cannot  trust  themselves  to  recall  the 
memory  of  that  sacred  agony.  Into  that  "  chamber 
over  the  Gate"  who  could  intrude? 

He  used  to  speak  of  the  gun  which  did  the  deed 
as  "that  fearful  yet  sacred  thing."  He  looked  upon 
it,  he  said,  something  as  he  might  have  looked  upon 
"the  Cross  after  the  Crucifixion."  He  wished  it  to 
be  buried  in  the  new-made  grave,  but  yielded  gently 
to  the  wishes  of  some  other  member  of  the  family, 
and  this  was  not  done.  But,  after  that  first  inevi- 
table moan  he  sprang  to  his  Christian  privilege  of 
cheerful  faith.  Friends  of  his,  men  experienced  in 
the  tragedies  of  life,  refer  to-day  to  the  "  marvellous 
letters  "  which  he  wrote  in  answer  to  their  expres- 
sions of  sympathy.  From  the  beginning,  he  seems 
to  have  determined  to  bear  his  sorrow  as  one  who 
trusted  God  to  the  uttermost. 

Men  have  done  this  before,   and  will  do  it,  bless 


144  AUSTIN   PHELPS. 

God!  to  the  end;  but  it  was  not  expected,  for  evi- 
dent reasons,  of  him.  His  temperament  was  natur- 
ally tragic.  Life  had  not  gone  easily  with  him.  He 
was  not  superficially  what  is  called  "cheerful."  He 
was  a  broken  and  a  dying  man. 

In  view  of  these  facts,  we  stood  astounded  before 
his  courage,  before  his  patience,  and  before  his 
strong,  almost  triumphant  good  cheer  and  good  hope 
and  good  sense  in  the  endurance  of  his  grief.  We 
learned  lessons  from  it  never  to  be  forgotten.  His 
thoughtfulness  for  others  then,  as  ever,  came  upper- 
most, and  came  steadily.  The  birthday  of  one  of  his 
absent  children  occurring  upon  the  day  following 
that  on  which  the  tragedy  took  place,  he  found  it 
possible  even  to  remember  to  send  the  solemn,  tender 
telegram  whose  "  God  bless  you,  my  child,"  held  such 
twofold,  heart-moving  significance.     It  was  like  him. 

To  the  amazement  of  us  all,  his  health  after  that 
August  day  did  not  immediately  or  rapidly  decline. 
On  the  contrary,  it  might  even  be  said  that  he 
gained.  His  summer  had  been  more  than  usually 
a  comfortable  one.  He  used  to  say  that  God  had 
been  storing  up  strength  for  him  wherewith  to  bear 
what  was  to  come.  For  some  time  his  whole  being 
sublimated  itself  into  a  kind  of  religious  rapture. 
The  bodily  frailty  bent,  like  a  demon  yoked,  and 
seemed  to  be  the  subject  of  the  ecstasy  of  soul  which 
overtook  him.  He  became  exalted,  and  "walked 
with  God."  Perhaps  it  was  at  this  time  that  he 
wrote :  "  But  in  our  darkened  homes  and  in  the  awful 
solitude  which  makes  the  packed  streets  a  wilderness 
to  us,  we  need  some  other  friend  than  Nature." 

For  a  long  time  after  this  grief  befell  him,  his 


LAST  YEARS.  145 

condition  was  as  practical  a  triumph  of  Christian 
faith  over  mortal  weakness  as  the  protest  of  any 
skeptic  need  ask  to  witness.  This,  we  like  to  think, 
was  a  part  of  the  usefulness  of  those  many  secluded 
and  suffering  years.  In  the  view  of  some  of  his  old 
friends,  these  were  by  no  means  the  least  useful  por- 
tion of  his  too  active  life. 

As  he  became  slowly  convinced  that  his  profes- 
sional labors  could  never  be  renewed  in  this  world, 
his  mind  concentrated  itself  upon  the  "next  duty" 
with  the  intensity  inseparable  from  his  nature. 

At  first,  the  conviction  came  hard  enough.  Over- 
tures from  other  posts  of  labor  reached  him  so  thickly 
as  almost  to  delude  him  into  the  belief  that  recovery 
was  still  a  bright  possibility  for  him.  In  the  course 
of  his  Andover  career  in  his  best  years  it  may  be 
briefly  and  generally  mentioned,  without  specifica- 
tion, that  he  had  received  calls  or  their  equivalents, 
some  of  them  urgent  and  persistent,  from  every 
important  theological  institution  in  the  country. 
Almost  every  desirable  academic  chair  within  his 
department,  and  some  outside  of  it,  had  been  offered 
to  him.  Influential  metropolitan  pulpits  had  not 
failed  to  make  efforts  to  decoy  him  back  to  the  pas- 
toral work.  Among  his  private  notes  are  records  of 
these  calls  or  overtures  to  calls ;  but  he  seldom  spoke 
of  them  even  to  his  family.  He  had  a  delicate  mod- 
esty about  his  own  professional  value.  It  was  a 
thing  which  he  left  to  speak  for  itself. 

Now,  in  his  failing  days,  suggestions  that  he  give 
such  work  as  he  could,  filling  any  lectureship  which 
might  be  possible  to  him  in  another  institution,  came 
to  him  with  especial  force.     I  think  he  was  deeply 


146  AUSTIN   PHELPS. 

touched  to  be  reminded,  at  the  very  crisis  of  his  de- 
cline, that  the  stirring  world  of  thought  and  labor 
still  remembered  and  needed  him.  He  even  con- 
sidered seriously  whether  the  fact  of  working  in  a 
new  atmosphere  —  climatic,  intellectual,  and  aca- 
demic — -  might  not  start  the  dying  tires  and  give  the 
power  that  the  old  environment  could  no  longer  be- 
stow upon  a  shattered  nervous  system.  But  the 
physical  facts  were  inexorable.  He  surrendered  this 
last  dream  with  God  knows  what  unspoken  strug- 
gles, and  bowed  to  his  fate. 

It  was  now  that  he  turned  his  failing  strength 
steadily  in  the  direction  of  those  literary  and  relig- 
ious labors  which  occupied  the  latter  part  of  his  life. 
He  wrote  —  one  is  astounded  to  see  how  much.  He 
wrote  when  he  was  fit  and  when  he  was  unfit.  He 
would  rise  from  his  bed  to  get  to  his  desk,  finish  the 
article,  and  go  back  to  bed.  Sometimes  he  wrote  in 
pencil,  propped  up  on  his  pillows.  Several  of  his 
last  books  were  prepared  during  those  years  of  retire- 
ment and  pain.  A  full  list  of  his  publications,  or 
as  full  a  one  as  can  be  now  secured,  will  be  found 
elsewhere  in  this  volume. 

He  wrote  much  for  the  religious  organs  of  his 
denomination,  chiefly  for  the  Congregationalist,  with 
whose  editor,  Rev.  Dr.  Dexter,  he  was  in  strong 
sympathy.  His  publishers,  the  Messrs.  Scribner's 
Sons,  brought  out  his  books  as  fast  as  he  could  pre- 
pare them,  and  in  these  peaceful  toils  his  last  years 
passed  quietly. 

Professor  Phelps  was,  more  distinctly  than  some 
other  men  of  equivalent  general  culture  and  personal 
power,  a  sectarian  in  his  habit  of  mind.     Yet  when 


LAST  YEARS.  147 

we  recall  his  tolerant  interest  in  other  denomina- 
tions of  religions  belief,  we  seem  to  have  chosen  the 
wrong  word.  We  might  rather  call  him  ecclesiasti- 
cal. But,  again,  that  seems  too  narrow  a  term  for 
his  intense  Christianity.  Religious  he  was  to  the 
last  atom,  Orthodox  he  was  to  the  last  heart-throb, 
Evangelical  to  the  last  fibre.  It  was  in  the  blood; 
it  was  in  the  brain ;  and  it  was  in  the  trend  of  his 
academic  life.  It  is  doubtful  if  any  life  would  have 
entirely  shaken  out  of  him  that  instinct  to  estimate 
affairs  theologically  which  the  atmosphere  of  a  uni- 
versity town  strengthens  in  far  more  worldly  men 
than  he. 

At  all  events,  that  was  the  fact.  His  published 
work  to  the  end  was  colored  by  it ;  and  more  at  the 
end  than  at  the  beginning.  The  world-wide  popu- 
larity of  "  The  Still  Hour  "  was  not  to  be  expected  of 
books  of  a  more  restricted  character,  but  they  found 
and  held  their  own  public,  and  performed  a  valuable 
service  to  the  last. 

In  the  affection  of  a  certain  class  of  his  readers  — 
not  the  largest,  but  perhaps  the  surviving  fit  —  there 
remains  one  book  (the  poet  E.  R.  Sill  would  have 
called  it  a  "booklet")  beloved  above  the  rest.  I 
refer  to  the  tiny  volume  from  which  we  have  already 
quoted.  Always  excepting  "The  Still  Hour,"  in 
whose  behalf  the  voice  of  the  people  seems  to  have 
been  the  voice  of  God,  the  tract  —  for  it  was  scarcely 
more  —  known  as  "The  Solitude  of  Christ"  seems  to 
me  to  have  folded  in  its  little  covers  some  of  his  best 
work. 

Of  course,  from  the  conditions  of  the  subject,  it  is 
not  a  gay  book.     Light  readers  have  been  known  to 


148  AUSTIN   PHELPS. 

put  it  aside,  saying,  "  It  is  too  sad."  Such  a  criticism 
from  such  sources  is  enough  to  allure  to  the  book  the 
type  of  soul  to  which  life  is  too  real  to  be  a  gay 
affair.  Sensitive  organizations  possessing  that  kind 
of  religious  culture  to  which  his  work  appeals  will 
have  found  in  these  refined  and  sympathetic  pages  a 
spiritual  gem  to  be  worn  out  of  sight  and  cherished 
silently. 

His  most  important  work,  professionally  speak- 
ing, was,  of  course,  the  publication  of  his  Andover 
lectures.  Under  the  titles  "  The  Theory  of  Preach- 
ing1' and  "English  Style  in  Public  Discourse," 
he  gathered  from  the  lecture  desk  the  work  of  his 
lifetime,  and  gave  it  to  his  public.  This  has 
proved  a  kindly,  faithful  public,  crowded  with  his 
old  pupils,  and  loving  as  much  as  it  has  valued  the 
permanent  form  of  that  flitting  service  which  the 
Professor  rendered  at  the  old  Senior  desk  on  Andover 
Hill. 

It  is  perhaps  hardly  necessary  to  add  that  these 
volumes  have  become  the  standard  text-books,  and 
bid  fair  to  become  the  classics  of  the  department 
which  he  represented.  The  quiet  and  steady  demand 
for  the  efforts  of  his  pen  stimulated  and  gratified 
the  sick  man,  and  helped  to  protect  him  from  falling 
into  that  quicksand  of  despondency  and  inertia  which 
engulfs  too  many  an  afflicted  creature  whose  world  is 
bounded  by  a  doctor's  order  and  four  hospitalized 
walls.  He  wrote  persistently  and  studiously  —  as 
he  always  had;  he  wrote  vigorously.  Some  of  his 
best  work,  intellectually  considered,  was  done  in  the 
last  five  years  of  his  life,  and  he  wrote  till  the  utter 
end;  the  hand  dropped  before  the  pen  did. 


LAST  YEARS.  149 

During  the  time  of  which  we  speak,  he  vibrated 
between  the  two  homes,  both  deeply  endeared  to  him 
n0W5  —  that  in  Andover  and  that  in  Bar  Harbor. 

By  the  courtesy  of  the  Board  of  Trustees  the  use  of 
his  house  at  Andover  had  been  voted  him  for  life. 
A  similar  consideration  was  extended  to  Professor 
Park,  to  Professor  Moses  Stuart,  and,  I  think,  to  Dr. 
Woods,  of  the  earlier  regime.  In  Andover  he  spent 
his  winters.  But  the  increase  of  his  exhaustion  re- 
quired each  year  an  earlier  and  earlier  departure  to 
the  invigorating  air  of  the  Maine  coast.  The  unpre- 
tending little  cottage  which  he  had  built  in  Bar 
Harbor  became  a  paradise  to  him.  For  the  last  two 
years  of  his  life  he  migrated  during  the  first  weeks 
of  March,  and  he  remained  by  the  sea  till  nearly 
November.  He  longed  with  exceeding  longing, 
toward  the  end,  to  avoid  that  hard  journey,  which, 
in  his  enfeebled  state,  took  three  days,  and  to  hiber- 
nate peacefully  beside  his  beloved  waves  and  moun- 
tains. But  his  thoughtf ulness  for  his  wife  and 
nurse  restrained  the  active  expression  of  this  wish. 

Nothing  could  exceed  the  kindness  with  which  he 
was  received  upon  those  painful  pilgrimages  by  the 
corporations  of  the  railways  which  bore  the  patient 
sufferer,  year  by  year,  at  such  unfashionable  dates 
that  it  was  impossible  to  forget  him.  To  Mr.  James 
T.  Furber,  of  the  Boston  and  Maine  Railroad,  and  to 
Mr.  Payson  Tucker,  of  the  Maine  Central,  he  was 
indebted  for  generous  courtesies  which  touched  him 
so  much  that  we  are  grateful  to  remember  them 
now.  Certain  of  the  conductors  and  captains  of 
steamers  troubled  themselves  so  far  and  so  heartily 
for  his  comfort  that  we  cannot  see  their  faces  to-day 


150  AUSTIN   PHELPS. 

without  the  heart-throb  that  calls  a  blessing  upon 
the  cordial  sympathy  of  men  not  too  often  thanked 
for  their  faithful  service  to  the  public.  The  em- 
ployees of  the  road  came  to  look  for  the  feeble  form 
and  pale  face  of  the  passenger  whose  sweet  smile 
never  failed  to  bestow  the  acknowledgments  which 
he  might  be  unable  to  speak. 

We  have  not  spoken  —  there  may  be  no  better 
place  to  do  it  —  of  the  beautiful  relation  which 
existed  between  Professor  Phelps  and  classes  of  peo- 
ple not  always  understood  by  educated  men.  To 
his  mind  there  seems  to  have  been  no  beneath  and  no 
above ;  he  was  essentially  a  Christian  democrat. 

In  commercial  transactions  he  was  not  easily 
duped;  he  was  clear-eyed,  firm,  and  attentive  to  his 
just  interests.  A  prominent  Chicago  lawyer  who 
conducted  his  affairs  for  many  years  testified  that  he 
had  never  met  in  his  whole  experience  a  professional 
man,  more  especially  a  clerically  professional  man, 
whose  business  judgment  equalled  that  of  Professor 
Phelps. 

There  is  a  certain  form  of  consideration  for  the 
poor  and  ignorant  which  (in  their  minds,  at  least) 
consists  chiefly  in  an  infinite  capacity  for  being  im- 
posed upon.  His  philanthropic  impulses  were  not  of 
that  kind;  but  he  had  a  certain  moral  beauty  of 
manner  in  his  treatment  of  those  less  fortunate  than 
himself  which  worked  like  a  magnet.  The  pauper 
at  the  door  might  be  privately  sheltered  in  the  barn 
over  nisrht  — -  the  master  of  the  house  half  ashamed  to 
own  up  to  it,  but  found  immovable.  It  was  no  fit 
night  to  turn  a  fellow-creature  from  his  threshold, 


LAST  YEARS.  151 

and  it  should  not  be  done.  Tramps  by  the  score  re- 
ceived their  dinner  at  the  back  door  of  the  old  white 
mansion,  whose  stately  appearance  was  sure  to  attract 
them  in  more  than  common  proportion. 

We  were  instructed  even  at  the  height  of  the  anti- 
tramp  agitation  never  to  turn  away  a  hungry  man 
unfed.  No  harm  ever  came  of  that  innocent  social- 
istic imprudence.  Not  infrequently  he  came  out 
from  his  study  and  talked  with  these  waifs  of  for- 
tune. Certain  victims  of  the  war,  with  sad  eyes  and 
hollow  chests,  honest,  disabled  soldiers,  whose  pen- 
sions had  not  yet  "come  round,"  turned  year  after 
year  to  his  door, —  less,  I  think,  for  any  other  help 
which  they  received  than  for  the  overflowing  sym- 
pathy which  they  were  sure  of  at  that  house.  They 
would  watch  his  tender  face  as  that  high  illumina- 
tion which  everybody  knew  who  knew  him  mounted 
from  quivering  lip  to  filling  eye,  and  listen  for  his 
melting  voice  with  a  kind  of  infantile  trust  and 
adoration.  If  his  life  had  thrown  him  into  active 
relation  with  the  large  suffering  forces  and  classes 
of  our  American  poor,  he  would  easily  have  been  a 
memorable  philanthropist.  He  had  the  sacred  fire 
in  him.  As  it  was,  he  came  in  contact  with  "  the 
common  people "  only  in  the  ways  natural  to  a 
scholar  and  a  recluse.  Something  suppressed  and 
denied  in  his  nature,  some  high  passion,  some  rare 
enthusiasm  of  humanity,  always  struck  aflame  when 
opportunity  called  it.  "I  want  to  have  my  good 
name  associated  more  with  my  heart  than  with  my 
head,"  he  had  said. 

In  those  less  obvious  forms  of  Christian  service 
which  are  sometimes  considered  a  little  beneath  the 


152  AUSTIN  PHELPS. 

attention  of  distinguished  minds,  lie  was  indefatiga- 
ble and  unforgetting.  Servants  adored  him.  It  is 
doubtful  if  one  ever  entered  his  house  who  did  not 
hold  him  in  a  peculiar  veneration  and  affection. 
"  For  the  dear  Professor  "  was  the  watch-word  of  the 
kitchen.  His  thoughtfulness  for  those  who  minis- 
tered to  him  was  something  very  beautiful  to  see 
and  inspiring  to  remember.  Traditions  among  these 
humble  folk  report  little  legends  of  his  consideration 
which  are  treasured  like  the  feats  of  ecclesiastical 
saints.  He  was  the  preferred  banker  of  many  a 
Catholic  economist,  who  trusted  him  as  devoutly  as 
Holy  Church  herself;  and  his  interest  in  these  little 
transactions  was  enthusiastic.  In  one  respect,  per- 
haps, he  had  a  peculiar  hold  upon  the  Celtic  heart. 
He  was  never  known  to  try  to  proselyte  a  Catholic 
servant  or  to  disturb  her  simple  faith. 

He  treated  the  Catholic  religion  as  represented  in 
an  honest,  faithful  household  servant  with  a  genuine 
respect  which  could  not  be  mistaken.  In  the  latter 
years  of  his  life,  his  consideration  for  those  who 
ministered  to  him  received  its  high  usury  in  the  ser- 
vice of  a  rare  and  touching  devotion  to  which  we 
shall  have  occasion  later  to  refer. 

In  the  current  of  publication  toward  which  his 
mind  swept  during  those  last  years,  he  encountered 
what  was  to  him  something  of  a  novel  experience  — 
severe  public  attack. 

This  brings  us  grazing  the  outlines  of  a  subject 
which  it  is  not  possible  either  to  avoid  or  to  handle 
as  one  miffht  wish  to  touch  so  difficult  and  delicate 
a   matter,  —  that   unfortunate    development    in    the 


LAST   YEARS.  153 

recent  history  of  the  Seminary  with  which  he  had 
been  connected,  which  is  known  as  the  Andover 
Controversy. 

With  the  main  facts  of  this  agitation  —  probably 
the  most  important  which  has  shaken  the  Protestant 
world  in  this  country  since  the  departure  of  Dr. 
Channing  from  the  old  Orthodox  ranks  —  the  public 
is  already  too  familiar.  It  could  add  nothing  to  the 
interest  attending  a  deplorable  ecclesiastical  conflict 
were  the  writer  of  these  pages  to  attempt  to  multiply 
the  details  which  the  press  and  the  courts  of  New 
England  have  given  to  him  who  runs  and  reads. 

They  are  quite  enough.  So  far  as  the  subject  of 
this  memorial  is  concerned,  the  fact  should  go  on 
record  as  distinctly  as  it  is  in  the  power  of  this 
volume  to  stamp  it,  that  his  sympathies  with  the 
conservative  element  in  the  controversy  were  unmis- 
takable from  the  first,  and  became  more  emphatic 
toward  the  last.  It  seems,  indeed,  almost  a  super- 
fluity to  say  what  his  own  voice  and  pen  have  pro- 
claimed with  no  wavering  sound  ever  since  this  pious 
war  began  to  trouble  the  frontiers  of  Christian  faith. 
There  was  never  anything  timid  or  halting  in  his 
speech.  It  rang.  Once  let  him  be  sure  of  his  con- 
viction, and  his  tongue  was  a  clarion.  Down 
through  the  confused  and  struggling  ranks  of  this 
long  battle  his  dying  voice  has  cried  above  the  din, 
in  no  uncertain  tones.  He  sought  the  truth;  he  be- 
lieved that  he  had  found  it ;  he  spoke  as  he  felt  that 
God  bade  him.  "The  Voice  said,  Cry!"  and  he 
obeyed.  None  of  us  can  do  more;  none  should  do 
less. 

In  the  early  portion  of  his  life,  and,  indeed,  until 


154  AUSTIN  PHELPS. 

those  later  years,  Professor  Phelps  had  been  the  lib- 
eral of  his  denominational  faith.  In  what  was  known 
as  the  conflict  between  the  Old  School  and  the  New 
School  of  the  Orthodox  Congregational  Church,  he 
stood  distinctly  in  the  van  of  the  New  School.  He 
never  taught  nor  preached  the  ghastly  doctrines  which 
have  sorely  troubled  the  growing  faith  of  thousands 
of  New  England's  young  and  honest  minds.  He  did 
not  educate  his  people  or  his  children  into  theo- 
logical contortions.  The  fear  of  an  ungodlike  God 
never  haunted  us.  Dogmatic  horror  never  dogged 
us.  We  were  not  taught  that  we  sinned  in  Adam, 
or  that  babies  were  damned,  or  that  God  elected 
some  of  us  to  hell  and  some  to  heaven  without  our 
personal  consent.  We  were  never  taught  that  all 
heathen  went  to  hell.  In  creeds  we  were  not  over- 
much instructed.  The  Westminster  Catechism  we 
never  learned.  Our  religious  training  was  natural, 
easy,  pleasant,  —  if  one  may  say  so,  —  comfortable. 
It  never  occurred  to  us  that  God  was  not  affectionate 
and  lovable.  We  feared  no  doom  which  we  did  not 
bring  upon  ourselves.  We  were  taught  to  think 
much  of  Christ  —  of  what  He  sacrificed,  of  what  He 
suffered.  Much  was  said  to  us  about  His  tenderness 
and  His  purity  and  His  comprehension  of  those  mys- 
teries in  our  natures  where  even  father's  love  must 
hesitate  and  retreat.  We  were  early  given  to  under- 
stand that  if  we  had  a  Friend  anywhere,  we  had  one 
in  that  crucified  Nazarene  whose  story  we  heard 
read  at  evening  prayers.  The  low,  awed  voice,  the 
suffused  eye  of  the  reader,  meant  as  much  to  us 
as  the  story,  and  gave  that  human  element  to  the 
divine  tragedy,  that  unutterable  tenderness  to  Eter- 


LAST   YEARS.  155 

nal  Justice,  which  lasts  for  life  in  the  theology  of  the 
sensitive  heart. 

Thus  were  we  reared  by  the  wise  and  loving  mind 
whose  stand  upon  the  darker  doctrines  of  faith  be- 
came toward  the  end  so  resolute. 

It  is  not  to  be  said  that  his  views  underwent  any 
change  —  at  least,  none  conscious  to  himself;  it  is  to 
be  said  that  they  did  not  advance  with  the  movement 
of  certain  bodies  of  modern  religious  belief.  In 
"the  eternal  punishment  of  the  finally  impenitent," 
to  use  the  technical  phrase,  he  had  always  believed. 
He  had  always  taught  it,  and  he  taught  it  to  the 
end.  Perhaps  he  did  not  emphasize  it  so  much  in 
those  early  years.  I  think  he  dwelt  more  often  and 
more  eagerly  upon  the  merciful  meaning  of  the 
Christian  faith. 

But  we  were  taught  that  we  were  little  sinners, 
and  that  sin  was  abominable  and  abhorred  by  God 
and  men.  "The  worst  thing  in  the  world,  except 
sin,"  was  a  common  phrase  with  him.  I  find  among 
my  notes  of  talks  with  him,  dating  back  to  1866, 
these  words :  — 

"  I  never  expect  to  understand  future  punishment 
entirely,  in  this  world  or  another;  but  I  expect  to 
understand  enough  of  it  to  see  the  wisdom  and  the 
justice  and  the  necessity  of  it." 

When  the  theological  crisis,  complicated  as  it  was 
with  technical  legal  points  affecting  the  governing 
power  of  the  Seminary,  deepened  to  an  unexpected 
conflict  between  the  Board  of  Trust  and  the  Fac- 
ulty on  one  hand,  and  the  Board  of  Visitors  on  the 
other,  —  a  conflict  so  serious  that  the  Supreme  Court 
has  been  called  in  to  adjust  it,  —  then  the   consci- 


156  AUSTIN   PHELPS. 

entious  Professor,  whose  theological  education  had 
not  been  completed  in  modern  German  schools,  could 
not  follow  the  new  departure.  After  watching  it  for 
a  while  in  the  anxious,  and  perhaps  somewhat  bitter, 
silence  which  men  of  a  past  belief  feel  toward  the 
pioneers  of  a  future,  and  after  making  such  fruitless 
private  efforts  as  he  could  to  quell  the  disturbance, 
he  spoke. 

His  published  articles  upon  the  subject  of  the 
retributive  elements  in  God's  justice  are  well  known 
to  those  who  feel  an  interest  in  the  controversy;  and 
nothing  in  the  way  of  comment  upon  them  need  be 
added  here. 

By  the  secular  press,  and  to  some  extent  by  the 
radical  theological  party,  he  was,  of  course,  attacked. 
The  Andover  Faculty,  several  of  whom  had  been  his 
pupils,  treated  their  old  Professor  with  respect  and 
courtesy  during  this  theological  war;  he,  in  turn, 
never  lost  his  kindly  feeling  for  them  or  trust  in 
their  Christian  conscientiousness,  and  the  disputants 
have  many  a  gentle  memory  to  teach  them  how 
religious  controversy  may  be  conducted  by  Christian 
gentlemen. 

Nevertheless,  he  spoke,  and  he  had  to  bear  the 
consequences.  Some  of  the  attacks  of  the  press 
upon  him  —  I  have  never  read  them,  and  cannot 
personally  judge  —  are  said  to  have  been  very 
severe.  From  what  I  know  of  American  criticism, 
I  should  think  this  more  likely  than  not.  The  sick 
man,  already  sinking  to  his  death,  could  not  be 
shielded  from  them.  The  great  wheel  of  life  in  the 
Buddhist  carving  grinds  on,  Avhirling  all  created 
things  in  a  common  overthrow,  to  a  common   fate. 


LAST  YEARS.  157 

There  is  no  shield  in  this  world  for  the  sensitive,  for 
the  sick,  for  the  dying.  Conseqences  follow  causes, 
and  laws  rule  accidents ;  and  we  learn  "  to  take  the 
thing  that  is  "  without  surprise  or  protest. 

He  took  the  results  of  his  defence  of  the  old  faith 
which  he  had  preached  all  his  life  in  this  way, 
quietly,  without  evident  anxiety  or  annoyance. 
Sometimes  his  fading  eye  would  flash,  and  he  would 
say,  "I  should  like  to  get  well  enough  to  answer 
that!"     Sometimes  he  smiled  and  said  nothing  at 

all. 

We  are  often  called  to  respect  the  courage  of  the 
radical  who  breaks  from  the  traditions,  opens  Pan- 
dora's box  of  heresy,  and  faces  the  buzzing,  sting- 
ing consequences  for  the  truth's  sake, —  or  that  of 
what  he  believes  to  be  the  truth,— and  he  may  de- 
serve our  respect. 

Let  us  remember  that  the  man  gray  in  the  service 
of  an  ancient  and  honored  faith  which  has  become  a 
part  of  his  being,  and  lifting  a  trembling  hand  to 
protect  her  if  he  may,  before  he  go  hence,  for  the 
truth's  sake, —  or  that  of  what  he  believes  to  be  the 
truth, —  may  be  courageous,  too,  and  that  his  cour- 
age also  may  deserve  respect,  and  gain  it. 

The  history  of  the  last  few  years  at  Andover  gave 
great  pain  to  Professor  Phelps.  It  seemed  to  him, 
from  his  point  of  view,  that  grave  dangers  threatened 
the  institution  to  which  he  had  consecrated  his  life 
and  his  faith. 

The  personal  differences  not  amounting  to  es- 
trangements, between  good  men,  all  trying  to  do  the 
right  thing,  troubled  him,  I  think,  more  than  he 
told  us. 


158  AUSTIN  PHELPS. 

On  another  occasion,  at  the  time  of  a  divergence 
of  opinion  in  the  Faculty,  when,  in  the  judgment  of 
the  majority  of  the  Christian  world,  he  would  have 
been  held  unquestionably  right  in  diverting  a  seri- 
ous catastrophe  (not  theological),  he  wrote  to  a 
friend :  — 

"  It  grieves  me  more  than  I  can  tell  you  to  leave 
these  dear  young  brethren  with  their  confidence 
turned  from  me.  I  know  some  little  part  of  what 
St.  Paul  felt  when  he  said,  'I  have  great  heaviness 
and  continual  sorrow  in  my  heart.'  I  rejoice  that 
there  is  a  world  where  good  men  cannot  distrust 
each  other." 

So,  perhaps,  could  he  speak,  he  would  answer  us 
now.  To  an  onlooker  at  these  theological  convul- 
sions, it  seems  as  if  death  might  teach  something  to 
troubled  life,  and  the  great  Silence  fall  like  a  sacred 
amnesty  upon  our  little  wrangling. 

Would  to  Heaven  that  the  holy  spears  of  the  An- 
dover  warfare  could  be  thrown  down  upon  the  new- 
made  grave  of  him  who  so  long  loved  and  served  her, 
and  who  so  well  loved  those  who  battle  for  her,  both 
of  this  side  and  of  that ! 

Would  to  God  that  the  flowers  and  the  snows  of 
the  old  chapel  churchyard  could  cover  all  that  sore- 
ness and  sadness  as  utterly  and  as  quietly  as  they 
cover  his  calm  face ! 


CHAPTER   XIV. 

BAR    HARBOR. 

When  a  man  has  been  ill  for  twenty  years,  nobody 
expects  him  to  die.  This  is  the  common  fate  of  the 
long  sick,  and  Professor  Phelps  did  not  escape  it. 
He  was  not  one  of  those  invalids  who  are  accustomed 
to  call  the  family  together  for  premature  farewells. 
Sometimes  to  an  intimate  friend  he  tvrote  some  justi- 
fiable fear  which  was  more  than  usually  present  to 
his  consciousness ;  but  he  spoke  little  to  any  one  of 
the  end,  which  he  himself  foresaw,  but  in  whose 
approach  he  seems  hardly  to  have  believed  that  any 
one  else  would  believe.  It  came  on  so  gradually,  it 
came  so  quietly,  it  came  so  happily,  that  we  are 
comforted  to  be  able  to  think  that  those  last  years 
were  the  most  peaceful  of  his  life. 

The  happiest  part  of  them  was  passed  in  Bar  Har- 
bor. He  suffered  so  much  less  there  than  in  any 
other  climate  which  he  had  ever  tried,  that  it  was 
touching  to  see  his  longing  for  the  time  when  he 
could  make  the  pilgrimage.  All  through  the  win- 
ter, across  the  Andover  study  those  dimming  eyes 
watched  the  calendar  that  pointed  toward  the  date 
when  he  felt  that  he  could  ask  those  who  cared  for 
him  to  accompany  him  to  the  beautiful  shore  for 
which  "his  heart  and  his  flesh  cried  out."  Acute 
and  dangerous  accelerations  of  his  disease  were  apt 

159 


160  AUSTIN  PHELPS. 

to  come  in  the  breaking  of  the  winter.  His  fear 
that  he  might  become  too  feeble  to  be  moved  over 
the  long  distance  which  separated  him  from  the 
death-defying  ozone  was  piteous  to  witness.  It  is 
probable  that  he  prayed  more  for  strength  to  make 
that  journey  once  again  with  each  year's  new  risk 
and  added  weakness,  than  for  any  personal  blessing 
left  to  him  on  earth. 

An  almost  fatal  illness  in  the  spring  of  1888,  an- 
other in  1889,  gave  him  grave  warning;  but  he 
fought  his  way  up  from  these  crises  with  the  vigor- 
ous vitality  and  with  the  vigorous  hope  of  which  he 
had  so  much  more  in  his  nature  stored  away,  like 
masked  electricity,  than  those  who  did  not  know 
him  very  well  understood.  While  we  hung  over 
him  in  the  Andover  home  in  March  of  1888,  expect- 
ing every  hour  to  be  his  last,  he  himself  showed  no 
concern  whatever  about  his  own  condition. 

"I  knew  all  the  time,"  he  said  afterwards,  "better 
than  any  of  you,  that  my  time  had  not  come.  I  never 
for  a  moment  thought  I  should  die.  I  expected  to 
go  to  Bar  Harbor  in  ten  days.     I  mean  to  now." 

And  he  did. 

But  the  next  year  the  relapse  was  longer  and  left 
deeper  traces.  This  one  occurred  in  Bar  Harbor, 
where  he  had  contracted,  from  some  imprudence,  a 
violent  bronchial  affection,  which  shattered  his  little 
store  of  strength ;  and  after  this  he  spoke  with  less 
emphasis  about  his  future;  in  fact,  he  spoke  less, 
whether  of  living  or  of  dying,  as  the  solitary  path- 
way narrowed  to  his  feeble  tread. 

At  Bar  Harbor  he  was  pathetically  happy.  In  all 
that  great,  gay  Babel  of  summer-seekers  it  may  be 


BAR   HARBOR. 


161 


doubted  if  there  was  another  heart  so  grateful  or 
so  blessed  as  his.  His  consciousness  of  suffering 
seemed  there  to  be  altogether  in  abeyance  to  his 
sense  of  privilege. 

Dr.  William  Rogers  of  that  place,  long  his  faith- 
ful and  trusted  physician  and  friend,  says  of  this 
period  of  his  life :  — 

"  For  ten  years,  and  for  many  years  before  I  knew 
him,  he  suffered  and  endured  pain  from  an  incurable 
malady  with  great  patience  and  courage,  and  with  a 
resolute  determination  not  to  allow  others,  so  far  as 
he  himself  could  help  it,  to  share  the  burden  of  his 
affliction. 

"  But  few  of  the  many  friends  who  loved  and  ad- 
mired him  can  fully  appreciate  his  devotion  to  the 
work  he  felt  called  upon  to  perform,  when  other  men 
with  less  strength  of  character  and  less  force  of  will 
would  have  laid  aside  the  labors  and  cares  of  life. 
His  convictions  as  to  his  duty  to  his  fellow-creat- 
ures; his  purpose  to  bear  up  patiently  under  the 
heavy  affliction  of  pain  and  sickness  without  a  mur- 
mur and  without  a  doubt  as  to  the  divine  plan  of  his 
life  and  his  death  when  that  should  come ;  his  great 
faith  in  the  peace  and  happiness  waiting  for  him  in 
the  life  to  come,  endeared  to  us  all  the  memory  of 
one  in  whom  there  was  no  guile." 

Dr.  Rogers  alludes  to  his  "keen  sense  of  humor" 
as  a  trait  of  character  not  always  fully  appreciated  in 
him.  The  doctor  often  came  away  laughing  at  the 
"  quaint  things  "  said  by  the  patient  whose  anguish 
he  had  come  to  relieve;  and  the  physician,  if  any- 
body, knows  how  to  value  the  sense  of  fun  which 
defies  a  suffering  life. 


162  AUSTIN   PHELPS. 

Dr.  Rogers  mentions  Professor  Phelps's  deep  in- 
terest in  the  affairs  of  the  village,  and  his  generosity 
to  the  little  Congregational  Church  recently  estab- 
lished there,  adding :  — 

"  He  was  very  much  beloved  here  in  this  village 
by  people  who  knew  him  only  as  their  friend  and 
neighbor.  Very  many  were  the  kind  things  said  of 
him  when  he  was  among  us  and  after  he  left  us  by 
those  who  had  never  read  a  word,  perhaps,  that  he 
had  written.  During  his  last  sickness,  when  but 
little  hope  was  had  of  his  recovery,  his  neighbors 
showed  the  tenderest  solicitude  about  him,  as  if  he 
had  been  their  brother.  One  of  these,  a  man  near 
his  own  age,  mourned,  he  said,  'for  the  best  man 
who  ever  lived.'  " 

His  companions  at  Bar  Harbor  were  chiefly  three. 
His  wife  lovingly  fulfilled  the  privilege  which  gives 
to  a  wife  the  first  care  of  the  precious  sufferer,  to 
whom  so  many  would  gladly  minister.  Her  fidelity 
and  cheerfulness  were  invaluable  to  him,  and  her 
name  continually  upon  his  lips.  As  he  grew  fee- 
bler, his  dependence  on  her  became  very  touching. 
In  that  low,  uncomplaining  voice,  which  never 
fretted  or  exacted,  he  would  call  gently,  "Mary, 
are  you  there?  are  you  coming  back?"  as  often  as 
he  missed  her.  Much  of  the  time  his  son  Francis 
(toward  the  last  his  only  unmarried  child)  was  with 
him,  and  seemed  to  have  a  special  power  to  divert 
and  interest  the  sick  man. 

His  son  Lawrence,1  now  his  eldest  living  son  and 
only  representative  in  the  ministry,  slipped  into  the 

1  Rev.  Lawrence  Phelps,  pastor  First  Congregational  Church  at 
Chelsea,  Mass. 


BAR  HARBOR.  163 

sacred  place  of  the  dead,  and  relieved  his  father  of 
the  harassing  cares  which  press  so  heavily  toward 
the  end  of  life.  In  the  summer  vacation  the  other 
children,  to  such  extent  as  his  strength  permitted 
him  to  receive  them  at  the  seashore  cottage,  were 
some  of  them   always  with  him. 

But  these  were  temporary  visitors  at  the  Bar  Har- 
bor home,  and  his  condition  required  more  steady 
care  and  nursing  than  it  was  possible  for  the  family 
to  maintain  unaided.  They  were  re-enforced  by 
one  of  the  most  beautiful,  and  what  we  call  provi- 
dential, devotions  that  could  fall  to  the  lot  of  a 
dying  man. 

This  came  from  a  young  Catholic  woman,  who, 
entering  the  family  as  a  servant  in  the  house,  devel- 
oped such  an  aptitude  for  the  care  of  its  master  that 
she  became  his  nurse,  and  for  six  years  served  him 
with  a  fidelity,  with  a  tenderness,  with  a  comprehen- 
sion of  his  needs  —  one  might  say,  with  a  compre- 
hension of  his  nature  —  marvellous  to  witness,  and 
sustained  with  a  kind  of  beatified  unselfishness,  so 
unusual  in  the  history  of  American  domestic  service 
that  she  was  to  that  household  little  less  than  an 
angel  of  the  Lord. 

I  am  glad  to  take  this  opportunity  to  offer  a  word 
of  tribute  to  the  possibilities  of  the  elder  faith,  as 
the  Protestant  gratitude  of  one  family  has  studied 
its  higher  effects  upon  this  sister  of  charity,  who  saw 
God's  service  in  caring  for  the  sufferer  dependent 
upon  her,  with  that  celestial  spirit  which  is  neither 
of  church  nor  of  creed,  but  of  the  very  Christ. 
Heretics  though  we  are,  let  us  be  the  first  to  add  our 
"  Julia  "  to  the  calendar  of  those  unknown  saints  who 


164  AUSTIN   PHELPS. 

deserve  canonization  at  somebody's  hands  whether 
they  ever  get  it  in  this  world  or  not. 

Professor  Phelps  had  always  been  a  man  of  more 
than  usually  prayerful  temperament,  but  as  the  great 
rack  of  his  long  suffering  wrought  its  work  upon 
him,  I  think  that  he  came  into  a  state  of  what  may 
be  really  called  constant  communion  with  the  Un- 
seen God. 

Death  has  deep  forethoughts  of  its  own,  and  from 
behind  the  curtains  of  its  secret  chamber  works 
strange  alchemies  upon  its  elected.  One  of  those 
radiant  transformations,  or,  we  might  say,  transla- 
tions of  character  not  uncommonly  witnessed  in  the 
departing  life,  fell  upon  his. 

Devout  of  faith,  spiritual  of  instinct,  manly  Chris- 
tian as  he  was,  might  he  have  been  —  it  was  some- 
times thought  so  —  a  happier  one,  a  little  less 
anxious,  a  little  more  trustful,  more  at  peace  with 
the  discipline  of  life  ? 

Within  those  last  years  that  natural  sadness  almost 
inevitable  to  a  sensitive  and  imaginative  tempera- 
ment, and  impossible  to  be  understood  by  any  other, 
yielded  to  the  intense  dedication  of  his  secret  soul  to 
the  will  of  God,  and  yielded  with  a  completeness 
significant  to  see. 

From  the  secret  shadow  of  the  Most  High  strength 
visited  him.  From  unknown  resources  of  spiritual 
vitality  peace  magnetized  his  worn-out  nerve.  He 
worried  over  little  or  nothing.  Anxiety  for  himself 
was  blotted  out;  anxiety  for  his  dearest  became  a 
secondary  pang.  He  learned  to  leave  even  his  chil- 
dren's troubles  to  the  thoughtfulness  of  that  other 
Father  whom  he  had  taught  us  how  to  trust.     Little 


BAR   HARBOR.  165 

cares  and.  large  fears  seemed  to  stand  back  now  from 
his  too  responsive  heart.  In  their  place  stole  on  a  deep 
repose.  "It  has  taken  me  forty  years,"  he  had  once 
said,  "  to  grow  into  that  state  of  mind  as  regards  dis- 
cipline in  which  I  can  see  my  children  suffer  without 
flinching."  Now  "I  must  leave  you  to  God,  I  must 
leave  you  to  God,"  he  wrote  so  often,  that  the  phrase 
came  to  be  a  benediction  which  we  looked  for  at  the 
end  of  his  letters.  To  those  who  knew  him  well 
this  temperamental  change  had  a  significance  that 
moved  us  very  much.  It  should  be  remembered 
that  to  the  end  his  mind  remained  unimpaired,  and 
retained  to  an  astonishing  extent  its  clearness  and 
vigor.  This  peace  which  we  saw  in  his  high  eye 
and  felt  in  his  failing  voice,  and  noted  even  in  the 
gentle  wave  of  his  wasted  hand  with  which  he  re- 
manded a  painful  subject  into  silence,  was  not  the 
apathy  of  a  dulled  brain. 

Speak  the  word,  draw  the  spark,  and  the  fires  of 
youth  shot  from  his  face !  The  deepening  trust  and 
calm  which  we  witnessed  in  every  expression  of  his 
nature  was  not  what  Hume  calls  "  the  decline  of  the 
soul."  It  was  the  ascent  of  the  Christian  spirit. 
He  had  conquered  his  wiliest  enemy;  he  had  over- 
come the  fearfulness  and  forecast  of  a  too  finely 
sympathetic  organization;  he  had  given  "life  and 
all  that  was  therein  "  to  God  and  to  God's  plan  for 
him  and  his ;  he  had  won  his  last  battle ;  and  from 
this  hour  his  spiritual  victory  "marched  with  a 
charging  step." 

"A  beautiful  spot,"  he  had  written  on  his  first 
entrance  to  Bar  Harbor.  "  This  is  a  beautiful  spot 
cither  to  live  in  or  to  die  in.     'Not  my  will!  ' 


166  AUSTIN  PHELPS. 

Early  in  March  of  1890  he  started  as  his  wont  was, 
for  his  beloved  seashore  home.  It  rained,  and  the 
day  had  a  dark  forecast;  but  he  was  excited  and 
happy.  He  had  escaped  the  too  frequent  serious 
illness  of  the  breaking  winter,  and  started  with  good 
hopes.  He  was  very  weak,  but  his  courage  was 
higher  than  usual.  His  strong  eye  looked  out  long- 
ingly for  the  white  fire  of  the  breakers  where  its  first 
glimpse  could  be  caught  from  the  railroad  train. 
At  the  breath  of  the  salt  air  at  Portland,  where  he 
spent  the  night,  his  heart  leaped  for  joy.  The  won- 
derful power  of  the  sea  wrought  upon  him,  as  it  al- 
ways did,  an  almost  startling  effect.  From  the  hotel 
he  telegraphed  to  his  daughter  in  her  own  home :  — 

"Now  I  begin  to  live.'''' 

It  was  the  last  of  those  thoughtful  telegrams, 
eagerly  awaited  for  now  so  many  years  at  the  crises 
of  those  hard  and  dangerous  journeys. 

What  indited  that  message?  His  own  prophetic 
heart?  or  the  whim  of  fate?  or  the  Power  beyond 
himself  that  knew  when  the  patient  soul  might  say 
to  the  tyrant  body,  "Thus  far;  no  further"?  Only 
this  we  know:  That  long  death-in-life,  borne  only 
God  ever  understood  how  uncomplainingly,  was 
almost  over.  In  deed  and  truth  he  had  begun  to 
live. 

The  journey,  finished  by  another  night  in  Ban- 
gor, was  overcome  with  more  than  usual  success; 
it  seemed,  even,  with  less  than  usual  suffering. 
He  reached  the  home  of  his  longing  in  relative  com- 
fort, and  with  shining  eyes  and  happy  smile,  tottered 
from  the  little  ferry  steamer  and  up  the  landing 
which  he  was  never  to  tread  again, 


BAR   HARBOR.  167 

From  the  moment  that  he  set  foot  upon  Bar  Har- 
bor soil  his  soul  bounded,  and  the  usual  miracle  of 
the  rugged  climate  seemed  to  promise  its  usual  work. 
His  letters  were  full  of  hope.  Everything  was  as  it 
should  be. 

Winter  met  the  little  party;  a  blinding  snowstorm 
had  overtaken  them ;  but  the  furnace  worked  like  a 
charm.  The  wind  was  bleak,  but  the  view  from  his 
chamber  window  was  precious  to  his  heart.  The 
thermometer  ran  down,  but  the  big  open  fires  kept 
summer  in  the  house. 

This  was  the  spring  following  the  weakest  and 
warmest  of  New  England's  recent  winters.  Our 
new  climate  had  gone  so  hard  with  him  that  he  wrote 
with  emphasis,  "  I  am  thankful  to  be  in  a  civilized 
climate  where  it  snows  in  winter  as  it  ought  to!  " 

On  March  18th,  he  writes  gleefully  that  the  snow- 
drifts are  "five  feet  high  on  his  lawn."  When  other 
people  were  looking  for  wraps,  he  sat  on  his  cottage 
piazza  with  his  coat  off,  smiling  and  serene.  He 
was  perfectly  content.  The  cruel  journey  was  over 
once  again ;  did  he  know  that  it  was  over  forever  ? 
He  said  nothing.  If  any  celestial  foreknowledge 
visited  him,  he  kept  the  secret  to  himself.  Whatever 
his  foreboding  or  forehoping,  he  did  not  share  it  with 

us. 

But  when  one  of  his  children  went  in  April  to 
occupy  the  old  home  at  Andover  for  a  few  weeks, 
certain  significant  discoveries  were  made.  In  the 
ordering  of  his  household  were  remarkable  omis- 
sions. He  who  was  the  most  methodical  and  far- 
seeing  of  providers  had  left  this  and  that  undone. 
The  great  coal-bins  of  the  mansion,  always  gener- 


168  AUSTIN   PHELPS. 

ously  filled  the  season  "beforehand,"  were  empty. 
For  the  first  time  in  the  remembrance  of  the  family, 
the  report  came  up  from  below,  "  No  fuel.  The  Pro- 
fessor hasn't  got  ready  for  another  winter."  For  the 
first  time  in  all  those  years  when  he  had  walked 
hand  in  hand  with  death,  he  had  quietly  put  the 
cares  of  this  earth  aside.  He  knew  there  would  be 
no  need  of  furnace  fires  in  the  dear  old  home  next 
winter.  He  had  "set  his  house  in  order."  "I 
dread,"  he  had  said,  "to  have  the  last  days  here." 

For  reasons  which  have  seemed  good  and  wise,  the 
letters  of  Professor  Phelps,  such  as  have  been  gath- 
ered for  publication  in  this  volume,  stand  by  them- 
selves at  the  close  of  the  book.  But  one  has  been 
selected  from  the  package,  which  is  inserted  here. 
The  letter  was  sent  to  one  of  his  absent  children. 
After  reading  it,  who  else  could  choose  the  language 
in  which  to  close  this  chapter,  now  the  last  but  one 
in  the  story  of  his  life  ? 

"  Here  again,  safe,  and  with  a  new  chapter  of  the 
goodness  of  God  in  little  things.  At  Portland, 
when  the  wind  had  been  dead  east  for  thirty-six 
hours  and  a  howling  snowstorm  just  beginning,  my 
courage  gave  out  for  an  hour  or  so,  and  I  wanted  to 
stay  there  till  I  could  have  some  hope  of  still  water 
on  the  Bay.  But  something  within  me  said:  'Do 
not  try  to  care  for  yourself,  and  He  will  take  better 
care  of  you. '  So  I  kept  my  soul  in  patience.  The 
wind  shifted,  and  by  the  time  that  I  reached  the 
ferry,  it  had  been  blowing  off  shore  for  twenty-four 
hours.  The  sun  was  bright,  and  water  like  a  sheet 
of  glass  —  to  use  a  simile  which  it  seems  to  me  I 
have  heard  before.     A  day  in   June   could  not  be 


BAR  HARBOR.  169 

more  quiet,  although  the  thermometer  stood  below 
zero.  I  remained  on  deck  all  the  way.  Captain 
Oliver  took  me  across  without  stopping.  I  found  the 
cottage  warm  and  cosey,  the  little  furnace  doing  its 
work  as  well  as  the  big  one  at  Andover.  When  the 
sun  had  been  shining  just  long  enough  to  bring  me 
here  under  bright  skies,  an  easterly  snowstorm  set 
in  again  —  the  very  thing  I  most  enjoy. 

"  I  do  not  often  deluge  you  with  letters  of  descrip- 
tive travel;  but  my  heart  is  so  full  of  a  sense  of 
God's  care  in  little  things  that  I  can  think  of  noth- 
ing else. 

"  But  I  must  neither  preach  nor  prose  any  longer. 
If  I  could  sing,  I  should  break  forth  with,  '  O  that 
men  would  praise  the  Lord  for  His  goodness  and  for 
His  wonderful  works  to  the  children  of  men ! '  I  am 
one  of  the  'sparrows.' ' 


CHAPTER  XV. 

THE   STILL   HOUR. 

"I  wish  I  could  do  something  for  you.  But  all 
I  can  do  for  anybody  is  to  die,  and  that  is  as  God 
wills." 

In  a  dark  moment  he  wrote  the  words,  but  the 
mood  and  the  expression  were  now  both  rare.  The 
high  and  fervent  feeling  of  the  Bar  Harbor  letter 
dominated  him  rather,  not  as  a  mood,  but  as  a  state 
of  significant  peace.  He  lost  nothing  of  his  inces- 
sant care  for  those  whose  lives  had  been  the  burden 
and  the  joy  of  his.  Almost  to  the  end  we  find  him 
writing  little  thoughtful  bulletins  for  our  comfort, — 
what  to  do  if  the  house  were  damp,  or  the  horse  were 
lame;  orders  to  tradesmen,  for  somebody's  conven- 
ience; advice  in  money  matters;  cautions  about 
health ;  or  it  was  a  confidential  hint  how  to  preserve 
newly  married  happiness ;  or  it  was  a  card  tucked 
into  the  sealed  enveloj)e  to  repeat  the  pleasant  things 
he  had  heard  about  the  last  sermon  or  the  new  book 
or  the  new  position. 

There  were  no  corroding  family  anxieties  now  to 
dog  his  last  hours.  Comfort  and  happiness  had  fol- 
lowed his  children.  His  sons  were  successful  and 
useful  in  the  ministry  and  in  journalism.  Most  of 
his  dearest  were  well,  and  all  were  happy.  Still,  to 
the  end  his  never-resting  tenderness  was  astir, —  one 
170 


THE   STILL   HOUR. 


171 


should  say,  athrob;  but  bis  feverish  anxiety  for  our 
welfare  was  now  forever  quelled.  During  those  last 
months  Foreboding  had  napped  her  dark  wings  and 
fled  utterly  from  his  heart.  And  now  there  brooded 
upon  it  the  peace  of  the  living  God. 

"Suffering  is  not  the  hardest  thing,"  he  had  said 
years  before,  "nor  is  death." 

He  suffered— one  must  have  been  more  finely  organ- 
ized and  more  sorely  racked  than  most  of  us  to  know 
how  much.  In  August  a  serious  turn  came  to  his  dis- 
ease, but  his  great  will  and  courage  overcame  it,  and 
he  struggled  up  again.  His  patience,  always  open 
before  us  like  a  leaf  written  in  a  celestial  hand,  now 
became  something  of  which  the  lip  can  hardly  speak. 
The  bowed  head,  the  transparent  face,  the  attitude 
of  the  wasting  hands,  the  gentle  smile,  the  low, 
sweet  voice,  bespoke  the  very  essence  of  Christian 
endurance. 

His  reluctance  to  give  trouble,  his  silence  about 
his  own  bodily  anguish,  his  pathetic  consideration 
for  those  who  cared  for  him,  increased  with  the  accel- 
eration of  his  sufferings.  He  had  always  thought 
that  he  should  have  made  a  poor  martyr,  but  he  came 
out  from  that  long  inquisition  of  soul  and  body  a 
shattered  victor.  He  who  had  taught  us  how  to 
live,  was  now  teaching  us,  although  we  knew  it  not, 
and  teaching  from  the  sweet  art  of  his  own  spiritual 
refinement,  how  to  die. 

That  he  had  dwelt  a  good  deal,  in  a  quiet,  health- 
ful way,  upon  the  prospect  of  death  seems  to  be  evi- 
dent from  records  dating  twenty-four  years  back,  in 
which  I  find  this :  — 

"  What  human  soul  could  have  originated  the  con- 


172  AUSTIN   PHELPS. 

ception  of  death  as  a  natural  process  or  wise  method 
of  transition  from  this  world  to  the  next?  Yet  I 
imagine  that  we  shall  find  it  to  be  a  unique  system, 
fitted  to  its  purpose  with  marvellous  dexterity.  It 
will  be  found,  I  think,  the  only  condition  which  can 
bring  the  soul  out  of  itself  — feeling  itself  of  no  use 
to  itself — -  God  alone  left  for  it  to  cling  to." 

He  continued  to  work  all  summer  and  into  the 
early  autumn.  He  revised  the  proof-sheets  of  a 
new  edition  of  "The  Still  Hour,"  and  sent  some 
new  material  for  the  little  volume  to  the  publisher 
who  had  it  in  charge.  Upon  his  last  complete  book 
he  toiled  persistently  to  re-write  and  arrange  it  to 
his  mind.  A  letter  to  his  son-in-law  and  daughter, 
written  in  the  spring,  asks  for  their  personal  correc- 
tion of  the  proof-sheets  if  he  "is  taken  before  he 
consults  "  his  publisher.  He  directs  with  his  method- 
ical clearness  just  what  he  wishes  to  have  done  if 
he  himself  can  never  do  it,  ending  with  the  sugg-es- 
tion  which  shows  how  conscious  the  sick  man  was 
of  his  failing  vigor,  "If  you  find  anything  not  worth 
saying,  strike  it  out.  I  think  it  a  more  suggestive 
book  than  my  last,"  he  added,  modestly.  "It  is  the 
last  of  earth." 

September  came,  and  still  he  worked.  It  fled,  and 
he  worked  on.  At  last,  on  the  first  of  October,  within 
less  than  two  weeks  of  his  last  hour,  he  wrote  with 
his  own  hand  the  prefaces  and  letter  to  his  publisher 
which  should  accompany  his  manuscripts,  and  him- 
self directed  the  disposal  of  the  package.  With  this 
his  care  for  his  earthly  work  rested;  he  now  gave 
himself  time  to  die. 

Yet  still  he  was  not  expected  to  die.     He  was  up 


THE  STILL   HOUR.  173 

and  about  and  sometimes  out  of  doors.  Even  in 
September  he  was  seen  at  the  village  church  in 
Bar  Harbor.  He  lived  in  a  quiet  dream.  His  anxi- 
ety about  the  winter  had  ceased.  He  no  longer 
said  much —  indeed  he  never  had  said  much  —  about 
his  longing  to  remain  in  his  "dear  cottage,"  but  fell 
in  quietly  with  the  plan  for  his  return  to  Andover 
about  the  middle  of  October.  His  eloquent  eye 
wandered  from  his  windows  far  over  the  horizon  of 
the  autumn  sea ;  he  and  it  spoke  together ;  the  dying 
man  and  the  dying  year  understood  each  other;  why 
intrude  upon  that  harmonious  comprehension  ? 

And  still,  why  should  he  die?  Who  but  God  and 
the  ocean  understood?  Those  of  his  family  who 
were  in  attendance  upon  him  felt  no  apprehension, 
and  strongly  inculcated  upon  the  absent  children  the 
belief  that  there  was  nothing  to  fear,  and  no  reason 
for  coming  to  Bar  Harbor.  His  devoted  physician 
had  a  year  ago  put  a  limit  of  time  to  his  disease 
which  the  patient's  vigor  had  overleaped,  and  the 
doctor  had  wisely  ceased  to  offer  any  further  prog- 
nosis in  a  case  whose  vitality  defied  all  the  records 
of  the  schools.  Peacefully,  kindly,  and  unsus- 
pected, the  Best  Friend  came  to  meet  the  ex- 
hausted sufferer.  During  those  last  weeks  one 
significant  signal  waved  from  the  approaching  hand. 
His  eyes  suddenly  and  strangely  began  to  fail  him. 
In  one,  he  became  almost  wholly  blind,  seeing  but 
portions  of  anything.  This  cost  him  some  disturb- 
ance, but  little  anxious  distress.  Talk  of  meeting 
an  eminent  oculist  who  chanced  to  be  in  Bar  Harbor 
came  to  nothing ;  he  seemed  unaccountably  to  shrink 
from  the  useless  and  wearying  effort ;  but  when  the 


174  AUSTIN   PHELPS. 

darkness  increased,  he  allowed  one  of  his  children  to 
consult  a  Boston  specialist,  who  reported  evasively 
that  he  feared  "a  dangerous  lesion  of  brain  or  optic 
nerve."  This  diagnosis  was  never  sent  to  Bar  Har- 
bor; some  vague  phrase  supplied  its  place.  For,  ah! 
the  "lesion  "  was  the  great  "lesion  "  for  which  exist 
no  therapeutics.  The  blindness  was  the  last  dark- 
ness, which  no  light  but  the  ray  from  the  Mount  of 
Transfiguration  has  ever  pierced. 

It  was  upon  the  subject  of  this  darkened  earthly 
vision  that  the  last  letter  (so  far  as  can  be  learned) 
ever  penned  by  his  hand  was  written.  It  bears  date 
on  Saturday.  Upon  Sunday  morning  the  final  stroke 
smote  him  suddenly.  He  did  not  leave  his  bed 
again. 

The  note  is  written  in  pencil,  quite  distinctly,  but 
with  a  strange  blur  upon  the  letters  never  seen  in 
that  neat  and  clear-cut  handwriting  before  in  all 
those  feeble  years.  One  word  omits  the  final  letter 
—  an  unprecedented  circumstance.  One  sentence  is 
incomplete. 

"I  had  no  idea  of  asking  Dr.  to  come  here. 

I  asked  only  to  get  an  opinion.  .  .  .  But  wait  now 
till  I  return,  if  I  ever  do.  Can't  write  more.  God 
bless  you! " 

For  some  time  he  had  kept  a  little  blank-book 
in  which,  unknown  to  any  of  us  but  his  wife, 
he  had  written  certain  private  prayers  adapted  to 
his  own  needs  and  to  those  of  people  whom  he 
loved,  or  of  interests  which  he  wished  to  help. 
These  prayers  Mrs.  Phelps  used  to  read  to  him  at 
his  own  wish.  As  he  grew  weaker  he  asked  for 
some  one  of  them  every  night.     Here  are  some  of 


THE  STILL   HOUR.  175 

these  sacred  outcries  upon  which  his  soul  went  out 
to  God :  — 

"Our  Father,  Which  art  in  heaven,  hallowed  be 
Thy  Name! 

"My  Lord  and  my  God!  Do  Thou  make  it  a 
reality  to  me  that  Thou  in  Christ  art  very  near  to 
me  and  mine,  my  Friend,  my  Helper,  my  Comforter, 
my  Teacher,  my  Strength,  and  my  Redeemer! 
Amen,   O  Lord,   Amen !  " 

"Do  Thou  give  me  a  conscious  love  to  Thee,  such 
as  I  feel  to  earthly  friends !  Help  me  to  sympathize 
with  and  adore  Thy  holy  Nature,  Thy  hatred  of  sin, 
Thine  infinite  love  to  all  that  is  pure  and  good  and 
true!  Fill  me  with  grateful  sympathy  with  Thee, 
O  Christ,  in  Thine  atoning  pains !  Make  me  grate- 
ful for  Thy  promises,  and  help  me  to  trust  them  in 
my  times  of  need!  Do  Thou  bestow  upon  me  that 
love  which  casts  out  fear !  Enlarge  my  heart,  and 
finish  my  character  in  holy  likeness  to  Thine !  Let 
not  my  passage  to  another  life  be  fearful  and  fore- 
boding! Do  Thou  work  such  changes  in  me,  O 
Thou  Holy  Spirit,  that  heaven  and  its  employment 
shall  be  homelike  to  me !  Grant  me  these  gifts  for 
the  sake  of  Him  who  has  chosen  me  to  be  His  friend! 
Amen,  O  Lord,  Amen!" 

"  I  am  very  weak  about  the  closing  scenes  of  life. 
Thou  knowest  my  fears.  Do  Thou  save  me  from 
them!  Give  me  a  painless  and  quick  departure 
when  my  appointed  time  comes!  Save  me  from  a 
prolonged  and  exhausting  decline !  Do  Thou  grant 
me  my  desire  in  this  thing!  Why  not  to  me  as  to 
others  ?  I  shall  be  sadly  disappointed  if  it  may  not  be. 
But  be  it  to  me  as  Thou  wilt !  Amen,  O  Lord,  Amen !  " 


176  AUSTIN   PHELPS. 

"  Through  all  my  life  Thou  hast  been  my  most 
constant,  timely,  and  faithful  Friend.  I  have  count- 
less blessings  for  which  to  thank  and  praise  Thee 
forevermore.  For  my  existence ;  for  my  godly  an- 
cestry; for  my  father  and  mother;  for  our  family 
prayers ;  for  the  Sabbath  and  sanctuaries  of  my  youth ; 
for  my  protection  from  degrading  vices ;  for  my  col- 
lege life  and  honors ;  for  the  great  and  good  men  who 
directed  my  education ;  for  the  choice  of  my  profes- 
sion; for  my  acquaintance  with  Albert  Barnes  and 
Dr.  N.  W.  Taylor  and  Deacon  Kimball  and  my  be- 
loved church  in  Boston ;  for  the  favor  of  the  churches 
to  my  early  ministry;  for  my  election  to  the  professor- 
ship and  my  success  at  Andover;  for  the  circulation 
of  my  books  ;  for  '  The  Still  Hour  '  and  the  '  Sabbath 
Hymn  Book1 ;  for  the  writings  of  my  closing  years ; 
for  my  home,  my  family,  my  summers  at  Breadloaf 
and  Bar  Harbor ;  for  safety  in  my  journeys ;  for  my 
narrow  escapes ;  for  my  tour  in  Europe ;  and  for  the 
crowning  of  all  these  mercies  by  a  comfortable  hope 
of  heaven,  in  the  repose  of  which,  for  the  most  part, 
I  have  been  able  to  do  my  life's  work;  and  finally  for 
the  singular  peace  which  God  has  given  me  under 
the  supreme  affliction  of  my  life,— for  all  I  do  praise 
and  bless  Thee,  my  undying  Friend,  forever  and  for- 
ever !     Amen,  O  Lord,  Amen !  " 

"  I  also  thank  Thee,  O  God,  for  Thy  condescend- 
ing watch  over  my  pecuniary  interests.  I  commit 
them  anew  to  Thee.     Do  Thou  continue  to  save  me 

from  losses !     Give  discretion  and  integrity  to ! 1 

Protect  my  estate  at  Bar  Harbor  and  save  me  from 
discomfort  and  misfortune  there !     Deliver  my  sum- 

1  Here  follows  the  name  of  his  trusted  and  devoted  attorney. 


THE    STILL   HOUR.  177 

mer  home  from  flames ! 1  Thy  will,  not  mine,  be 
done  in  these  things.  Yet  Thou  knowest  that  I  need 
them  without  my  asking.  Do  Thou  grant  them  as 
Thou  dost  care  for  the  falling  sparrow!  Amen, 
O  Lord,  Amen !  " 

"O  Thou  infinitely  pure  and  holy  God,  I  have 
sinned  against  heaven  and  in  Thy  sight.  I  acknowl- 
edge Thy  loving  justice  in  the  endless  punishment 
of  sin.  But  I  beg  for  Thy  forgiveness,  I  plead  the 
promises  of  Christ.  Let  me  not  perish!  .  .  .  Re- 
member not  against  me  the  sins  of  my  youth !  Bury 
from  Thy  sight  their  more  awful  continuance  in  later 
years !  Let  them  be  blotted  from  the  record  of  my 
own  conscience !  I  plead  the  atoning  blood  of  Thy 
beloved  Son !     Amen,  O  Lord,  Amen !  " 

"O  my  Father  and  my  Friend,  Thou  hast  given 
me  my  home ;  do  Thou  bless  those  who  have  made  it 
beautiful  and  dear  to  me !  I  am  very  helpless  about 
them.  I  can  only  commit  them  to  Thy  loving  care. 
Do  thou  spare  my  wife  to  me !  Reward  her  for  her 
fidelity  through  the  long  years  of  my  invalid 
life!   .   .   ." 

(Here  follow  specific  prayers  for  each  member  of 
his  family.  These,  which  are  too  sacred  to  be  shared 
even  with  his  loving  friends,  are  omitted.  Immedi- 
ately follows  this  beautiful  petition  for  his  students, 
who  kept  the  "next  place  "  in  his  heart:- — ) 

"  I  implore  Thy  blessing  on  my  pupils  and  on  the 
churches  committed  to  their  charge!  Do  Thou 
remember  them  with  elective  and  loving  care! 
Strengthen  them  in  their  toils !     Cheer  them  in  their 

1  This  was  probably  written  after  an  accident  which  threatened 
a  conflagration  in  the  cottage. 


178  AUSTIN   PHELPS. 

trials!  Protect  them  in  their  temptations!  Give 
them  peace  in  their  work!  Reward  them  for  their 
fidelity!     For  Jesus's  sake,  Amen,  O  Lord,  Amen!" 

"  O  Thou  who  art  the  Head  of  Thy  Church  and 
its  auxiliary  institutions,  I  beseech  Thee  to  watch 
over  the  Seminary  to  which  my  life's  work  has  been 
consecrated!  Do  Thou  deliver  it  from  destructive 
errors  and  incompleteness  of  belief !  Make  it  true  to 
the  ancient  faith!  May  the  mind  of  Christ  inspire 
the  opinions  taught  there !  Let  the  heart  of  Christ 
sway  the  sympathies  cherished  there!  Remember 
the  prayers  and  sacrifices  in  which  it  was  founded! 
Make  it  a  tower  of  strength  to  Thy  Church  to  the 
end  of  time !  May  those  who  go  from  it  to  preach 
Thy  Gospel  go  in  the  energy  and  faith  of  apostles ! 
Let  them  be  preachers  of  those  truths  to  which  Thou 
hast  pledged  the  conversion  of  this  world  to  Christ! 
Amen,  O  Lord,  Amen !  " 

"  This  country  of  my  birth  I  commit  to  Thee,  the 
Lord  of  Hosts  and  the  God  of  Nations !  Look  down 
in  Thy  great  strength  and  wisdom  upon  our  rulers, 
our  judiciary,  and  our  schools  of  learning!  Have 
compassion  upon  our  freedmen,  upon  the  Indians, 
upon  the  workingmen,  and  upon  the  capitalists! 
The  great  tides  of  popular  opinion  and  passion  in 
this  land  I  commit  to  Thee!  Do  Thou  make  this 
nation  an  elect  people  to  do  Thy  bidding!  Only 
Thou  canst  protect  interests  so  vast  and  in  such 
deadly  peril !  Do  Thou  remember  the  prayers  of  our 
godly  ancestry!     Amen,  O  Lord,  Amen!" 

"  O  Thou  great  Head  of  Thy  Church  in  all  lands, 
do  Thou  bless  the  missionary  churches  and  their 
chosen  ministry!     In  heathen  lands,  in  our  Western 


THE   STILL  HOUR.  179 

territories,  among  alien  races  and  infidel  immigrants, 
do  Thou  look  down,  in  faithfulness  to  Thy  promises, 
upon  infant  and  struggling  churches!  Cheer  dis- 
heartened pastors!  Strengthen  weak  believers! 
Give  wisdom  to  Sunday-school  teachers!  Put  en- 
ergy and  tact  into  all  Christian  workers !  .  .  . 
Amen,  O  Lord,  Amen!" 

"  Almighty  and  Everlasting  God,  the  Father,  the 
Son,  and  the  Holy  Ghost!  I  desire  to  unite  with 
Thy  Church  Universal,  on  this  Thy  sacred  day,  in 
ascribing  to  Thee  glory  and  honor  and  power  and 
the  praise  of  all  Thy  creatures  both  now  and  forever, 
world  without  end!  Holy,  holy,  holy,  Lord  God 
Almighty,  which  was,  and  is,  and  is  to  come! 
Amen,  O  Lord,  Amen!" 

"O  Thou  Infinite  Saviour,  who  didst  give  Thyself 
to  die  that  this  lost  world  might  be  redeemed,  do 
Thou  come  in  Thy  might  to  fill  Thy  Church  with 
the  glory  of  Thy  Presence,  that  all  nations  and  races 
of  men  may  be  converted  unto  Thee!  Amen,  O 
Lord,  Amen !  " 

"  O  Thou  who  hast  a  Father's  compassion  for  all 
Thy  creatures,  do  Thou  have  compassion  upon  the 
neglected  and  suffering  and  tempted  children,  with 
whom  this  world  abounds !  When  father  and  mother 
forsake  them,  do  Thou  take  them  up!  Remember 
their  helplessness!  Consider  their  comparative  in- 
nocence —  that  they  have  come  to  their  perilous  life 
by  no  choice  of  theirs !  Shall  not  the  Judge  of  all 
the  earth  do  right?  Do  Thou  comfort  them  in  this 
world!  Do  Thou  save  them  in  the  life  to  come! 
Visit  not  upon  them  the  sins  of  their  fathers!  O 
Thou  loving  Saviour,  who  didst  take  them  in  Thine 


180  AUSTIN    PHELPS. 

arms  and  bless  them,  do  Thou  take  pitiful  account  of 
their  inherited  disabilities!  Let  the  great  mystery 
of  their  being  be  solved  to  the  glory  of  Thy  Name ! 
Amen,  O  Lord,  Amen!'" 

"  Thou  hast  taught  us,  O  Lord,  to  adore  Thee  as 
the  God  of  Israel.  Do  Thou  remember  Thy  promise 
to  Thine  ancient  people !  Pity  them  in  their  wan- 
derings !  Give  them  grace  to  see  in  the  world's  Re- 
deemer, their  long-lost  Messiah!  Turn  their  hearts 
speedily  to  Him!  Let  their  conversion  be  hastened 
as  the  pledge  of  the  world's  salvation!  May  they 
look  on  Him  whom  they  have  pierced  and  accept  Him 
as  their  Lord  and  their  God!  Amen,  O  Lord,  Amen!  " 

"Do  Thou  look  down  in  Thine  infinite  pity  upon 
the  despised  races  of  mankind  !  Teach  superior 
races  and  dominant  nations  that  Thou  hast  made  of 
one  blood  all  the  dwellers  upon  earth!  Make  it  a 
reality  to  Thy  Church  that  the  blood  of  Christ  has 
been  shed  for  all!  Turn  to  Christ  the  millions  of 
China,  the  tribes  of  Africa,  the  freedmen  of  Amer- 
ica, and  those  who  dwell  in  the  islands  of  the  sea! 
Give  especial  force  to  Christian  missions  among 
them!     Amen,  O  Lord,  Amen!" 

"  Wilt  Thou  have  special  mercy  upon  the  Church 
of  Rome!  Lead  into  the  full  glory  of  the  Gospel 
those  of  its  members  who  are  regenerated  by  Thy 
Spirit!  Deliver  them  from  the  entanglements  of 
inherited  errors!  Let  them  speedily  become  a 
power  of  reform  among  the  nations!  Let  pure  re- 
vivals of  religion  overspread  all  Catholic  lands! 
Give  larger  success  to  the  Mc'All  missions  in 
France,  to  the  Protestant  churches  of  Italy!  For 
the  sake  of  the  Lord  of  all  truth!    Amen!  " 


THE   STILL   HOUR.  181 

(In  Pencil.) 

"  Now  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep, 
I  pray  the  Lord  my  soul  to  keep  ! 
If  I  should  die  before  I  wake, 
I  pray  the  Lord  my  soul  to  take !  " 

(In  Pencil.) 

"  O  Thou  who  art  a  Friend  who  sees  in  secret, 
Thou  knowest  certain  private  thoughts  which  1  long 
to  say  to  my  father  and  my  mother  and  my  precious 
boy!  Do  Thou  send  some  messenger  to  tell  them  all 
that  is  in  my  heart!  Give  me  this  as  Thy  special 
token  of  considerate  and  condescending  love!  For 
Jesus's  sake." 

The  little  missal  closes  with  another  prayer  for  his 
wife,  touching  beyond  words.  But  with  that  who 
shall  intermeddle  ? 

Suddenly,  on  Sunday  evening,  October  12th,  the 
telegraph  flashed  to  the  distant  children  the  terribly 
unexpected  truth.  He  could  live  but  a  few  hours. 
"Stay  where  you  are/' 

So  he  had  his  wish.     He  died  beside  the  sea. 

His  wife,  his  nurse,  and  his  physician  were  with 
him.  Unconsciousness  mercifully  did  its  work  for 
many  hours.  But  at  noon,  when  the  others  had  left 
the  room  for  some  momentary  errand,  he  twice  softly 
called  his  nurse  by  name,  adding,   "Are  you  there?" 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Phelps,  right  here.  Do  you  want  any- 
thing?" 

"Nothing  —  nothing,"  he  answered,  in  his  old  gen- 
tle way, —  so  thoughtful  not  to  give  trouble  to  the 
utter  end ! 

The  nurse  continued  to  speak  to  him  from  the  in- 
stinct of  her  religious  nature,  saying  something  to 


182  AUSTIN   PHELPS. 

him  about  heaven.  She  tried  to  ask  him  if  he 
wished  to  go  —  if  he  wished  to  go  to-day?  He 
bowed  his  head  and  clearly  answered,  "Yes — yes!" 

But  after  this  he  spoke  no  more. 

During  the  night,  as  he  sank  steadily,  Mrs.  Phelps 
and  the  nurse  stood  on  either  side  of  the  bed,  and 
together  sang  his  best  beloved  hymns,  "  Jesus,  Lover 
of  my  Soul,"  "Nearer  to  Thee,*'  and  "Jerusalem,  my 
Happy  Home." 

At  half-past  two  o'clock,  on  the  morning  of  Mon- 
day, it  being  the  13th  of  October,  1890,  he  "  began 
to  live." 

At  the  final  moment  his  Catholic  nurse  read  aloud 
the  Prayer  for  the  Sick  and  Dying,  from  the  rubric  of 
her  own  Church.  It  was  her  own  devout  impulse, 
and  he,  could  he  have  heard  it,  would  have  been  the 
last  to  gainsay  this  sweet  effort  of  an  alien  faith  to 
comfort  his  departing  soul. 

Upon  Wednesday,  the  15th  of  the  month,  he  was 
laid  to  rest  in  the  churchyard  of  the  Andover  chapel, 
beside  the  wife  of  his  youth  and  the  son  of  his  love. 

On  the  night  and  at  the  hour  when  he  passed  on, 
there  came  to  one  who  loved  him  a  vision  as  fair 
as  the  skies.  Suddenly,  behold!  for  he  was  walking 
up  and  down  in  front  of  his  Andover  home,  under 
the  maples  which  he  had  planted.  He  walked  a 
little  feebly,  but  like  one  who  gained  strange 
strength  at  every  step.  His  eyes  shone  with  un- 
utterable radiance.  His  smile  had  its  old  sweet 
curve.  Forgotten  health  ran  like  rapture  through 
soul  and  body.  He  looked  like  one  who  trod  to 
meet  eternal  life.     He  seemed  glad  to  be  at  home. 


THE   STILL    HOUR.  183 

For  so  many  years  have  we  watched  the  turning  of 
the  seasons  with  his  eyes,  felt  the  excesses  of  our 
capricious  climate  with  his  failing  strength,  and  re- 
ceived the  impressions  of  daily  life  with  his  quiver- 
ing nerve,  that  the  kind  meaning  of  death  comes 
slowly  to  the  consciousness.  When  the  south  wind 
blows  over  the  scorching  marshes,  it  is  still  the  first 
impulse  to  say,  "This  is  a  hard  day  for  him."  Then 
we  remember  that  the  sun  does  not  light  on  him,  nor 
any  heat.  When  care  knits  her  wrinkled  brow,  and 
anxiety  lifts  her  trembling  finger,  and  the  friction  of 
existence  strains  the  endurance  of  the  strong,  the 
heart  leaps  to  say,  "How  will  he  bear  it?"  Then 
we  remember  that  there  shall  not  be  any  more  pain. 
When  the  night  is  jarred  by  some  needless  disturb- 
ance, still  there  stirs  within  us  the  old  instinct  to 
spring  and  hush  the  sound  for  his  sake.  But  we 
remember  that  God's  beloved  sleep,  and  that  he  who 
starved  for  rest  has  found,  past  losing,  the  repose  of 
The  Still  Hour. 


LETTERS. 

The  writing  of  letters  is  becoming  a  lost  art. 

"It  is  so  much  cheaper  to  telegraph,"  said  a  busy 
man ;  and  most  Americans  at  least  are  of  his  opinion. 

Professor  Phelps  was  one  of  the  few  who  retain 
and  honor  this  graceful  and  old-fashioned  gift.  In 
reading  his  letters,  sent  from  many  sources  and  deal- 
ing with  many  matters,  I  have  been  freshly  made 
aware  of  the  fine  respect  which  they  offer  to  his  cor- 
respondent. Like  Napoleon,  he  never  allowed  him- 
self to  seem  in  a  hurry.  The  finish  of  his  lightest 
note  was  as  careful  as  proof-reading,  and  his  friend 
received  as  conscientious  attention  as  his  public  or 
his  publisher. 

One  can  hardly  appreciate,  who  has  not  read  his 
letters  en  masse,  how  noticeable  and  how  lovable  is 
their  cheerfulness. 

As  a  rule  they  took  —  or  they  gave,  which  is  more 
—  the  bright  view  of  things;  they  record  him  as 
quick  to  see  the  best  side  of  a  difficulty,  or  to  say  the 
courageous  word  of  a  sorrow,  or  to  offer  the  brave 
hope  to  an  anxiety. 

As  he  has  not,  perhaps,  received  full  recognition 
of  this  side  of  his  nature,  I  cannot  forbear  alluding 
to  the  impression  which  the  study  of  his  correspond- 
ence has  made  upon  its  editor. 

The  letters  and  extracts  from  letters  which  are 
given  here  have  been  chosen  by  a  law  of  selection 

185 


186  AUSTIN   PHELPS. 

which  has  sought  to  meet  the  eye  of  personal  friend- 
ship as  well  as  that  of  general  interest;  and  it  is 
hoped  that  both  friend  and  stranger  may  find  in  the 
pages  which  will  close  this  volume  something  that 
"each  after  his  kind"  will  claim  and  value. 


Letters  to   Me.  Charles   C.  Barry  (a  Boston 
parishioner). 

"Andover,  Mass.,  October  1,  1877. 

"I  cannot  permit  this  semi-centennial  of  our 
Church  to  pass  by  without  expressing  to  you,  as  the 
only  one  now  left,  as  I  understand  it,  of  the  band 
which  welcomed  me  to  the  Pine  Street  pulpit  thirty- 
five  years  ago,  somewhat  of  the  feeling  which  the 
occasion  awakens  in  me. 

"  I  find  that  years  only  deepen  the  interest  I  feel 
in  those  dear  friends,  so  many  of  whom  have  passed 
beyond  our  sight.  Their  names  have  become  sacred 
to  me  as  no  others  of  equal  number  can.  I  feel  that 
my  part  of  the  relation  between  pastor  and  people 
was  very  poorly  sustained,  but  theirs  most  faithfully 
and  devoutly.  So  things  look  to  me  as  I  picture 
them  in  the  past.  It  seems  to  me  that  when  we  meet 
in  that  world  where  things  will  all  see?n  as  they  are, 
they  will  appear  to  have  been  the  teachers,  and  I 
the  learner,  so  much  more  do  I  seem  to  myself  to 
have  learned  from  them  than  I  can  possibly  have  im- 
parted to  them. 

"  They  were  a  noble  set  of  men  and  women ;  gen- 
erous  in  their  treatment  of  their   pastor,  and  still 


LETTERS.  187 

more  so  in  their  judgments  of  a  young  man's  infirm- 
ities. I  shall  never  cease  to  be  grateful  to  them  for 
the  kindness  with  which  they  looked  on  my  crude 
efforts  and  overlooked  my  defects.  I  was  to  some 
degree  sensible  of  this  at  the  time.  I  labored  usu- 
ally under  an  overwhelming  sense  of  inability  to  do 
the  work  that  was  needed.  I  saw  it  as  clearly  as 
any  of  you ;  I  felt  the  reasonableness  of  your  expec- 
tations ;  but  never  for  a  day  did  I  feel  equal  to  the 
task. 

"  This  view  has  been  confirmed  by  my  later  convic- 
tions of  what  the  ministry  is  and  the  work  it  requires. 
I  am  not  sure  that  now  I  should  feel  any  better  qual- 
ified to  take  Mr.  Wright's  place  than  I  felt  then. 
The  work  of  a  pastor  of  a  Christian  Church  looms 
up  before  me  as  one  of  awful  grandeur,  from  which 
any  man  may  reasonably  shrink.  I  understand  how 
Moses  felt  when  called  by  God  to  the  deliverance  of 
Israel. 

"I  cannot  but  feel,  therefore,  that  God  was  spe- 
cially considerate  of  me  in  giving  me  such  people  as 
I  had,  and  in  allowing  them  to  be  so  blind  as  they 
sometimes  were  to  my  deficiencies.  Never  was  a 
young,  inexperienced,  unformed,  and  untried  man 
provided  with  a  more  charitable  and  generous  tri- 
bunal to  sit  in  judgment  upon  his  work. 

"I  recall,  too,  the  differences  of  opinion  which 
existed  among  us,  with  none  but  feelings  of 
brotherly  affection.  Though  I  do  not  know  that  I 
could  think  very  differently,  if  it  were  all  to  be  done 
over  again,  yet  I  should  do  differently  in  many 
things ;  and  it  seems  to  me  I  could  now  soften  those 
differences  more  discreetly  than  I  did.     They  were 


188  AUSTIN   PHELPS. 

not  really  so  great  as  they  seemed,  and  I  needed  only 
more  knowledge  of  men  to  make  all  parties  sensible 
of  that.  I  am  sure  that  our  hearts  were  much  more 
nearly  one  than  they  sometimes  appeared.  How  in- 
significant do  the  differences  of  good  men  seem  when 
Eternity  lets  in  its  blaze  of  light  upon  them! 

"I  have  often  wished  I  could  once  more  have  the 

chance  to  deal  with  our  friend without  a  whit 

of  change  in  either  his  theory  or  mine.  I  do  be- 
lieve that  he  might  have  been  saved  to  the  church 
if  I  had  only  known  then  what  I  know  now  of 
human  nature,  its  weaknesses  and  its  virtues. 

"  I  need  not  tell  you  that  among  my  most  faithful 
friends  I  number  your  name.  I  was  too  inexperi- 
enced in  the  ways  of  the  world  —  had  lived  too  ex- 
clusively among  my  books  —  to  appreciate  then  as  I 
do  now  the  pecuniary  service  which  you  rendered  me 
in  prompt  payment  of  my  salary,  when  often,  I  doubt 
not,  you  had  to  use  for  the  time  your  own  funds.  If 
irregularity  and  delay  in  pecuniary  affairs  had  been 
added  to  the  inevitable  burden  of  that  pulpit  upon  a 
young  man,  I  should  certainly  have  broken  down  in- 
gloriously.  Nothing  saved  me  from  such  a  disaster 
but  your  generosity,  which  I  feel  all  the  more  deeply 
because  you  never  said  one  word  of  the  service  you 
were  rendering  me.  It  was  the  work  of  a  true  and 
faithful  friend. 

"  May  God  bless  you  for  it,  and  for  all  your  fidel- 
ity, my  brother." 

"Bar  Harbor,  Me.,  September  18,  1889. 

"  You  speak  of  your  diffidence,  and  the  trial  it  was 
to   you.      In  my   early   life    I    suffered   from   it   im- 


LETTERS.  189 

mensely.  I  do  not  think  T  got  over  it  till  I  was 
forty  years  old.  And  in  public  prayer,  I  have  not 
got  over  it  to  this  day.  It  is  one  of  the  hardest 
things  I  ever  do,  to  lead  the  devotion  of  others.  At 
one  time  I  canvassed  the  question  of  going  in  the 
Episcopal  Church,  chiefly  for  that  reason. 

"  But  do  you  not  know  that  in  your  case  the  rest 
of  us  never  found  you  out  in  that  respect?" 

To  S.  E.  Bridgman,  Esq. 

"Bar  Harbor,  Me.,  July  30,  1881. 

"  Thanks  for  your  pleasant  words  about  my  article 
on  Spiritualism.  I  am  glad  to  know  that  even  one 
appreciated  the  need  of  it.  I  have  never  in  the 
course  of  my  life  known  so  serious  an  evil  to  he  so 
unwisely  ignored  before.  It  has  been  treated  by 
good  people  who  disapprove  it,  much  as  Mormonism 
has  been  by  our  Government. 

"  You  ask  why  I  do  not  publish  upon  it ;  I  have 
done  so,  and  my  tract  on  the  subject  has  been  cir- 
culated largely  at  the  West  through  home  missionary 
organs.  There  is  really  little  to  be  said  about  it, 
except  for  the  pulpit  and  private  Christians  to  keep 
before  the  public  the  fact  that  the  evil  is  as  old  as 
the  world,  is  distinctly  recognized  as  fact  in  the 
Bible,  and  always  with  condemnation.  The  whole 
business  of  seeking  to  unveil  the  future  by  means  of 
'familiar  spirits  '  is  forbidden  as  a  sin.  The  curi- 
osity which  prompts  it  is  a  sin. 

"Good  people  have  as  clear  a  warning  in  the  Bible 
to  avoid  it  as  they  have  to  avoid  lying  or  profane- 
ness.     I  do  not  think  that  our  Christian  people  real- 


190  AUSTIN  PHELPS. 

ize  this.       The  reaction  from  the   Salem  witchcraft 
has  made  this  later  necromancy  come  as  a  novelty. 

"  I  do  not  think  it  necessary  to  express  any  opin- 
ions, or  to  have  any,  as  to  the  origin  of  the  spiritu- 
alistic phenomena,  —  whether  Satanic  or  not,  — 
though  on  that  point  I  have  myself  pretty  clear  con- 
victions, to  be  held  till  science  gives  some  better 
explanation.  But  it  is  not  necessary  to  believe  that. 
It  is  enough  that  here  is  a  business  which  the  Bible 
condemns — no  matter  whose  it  is.  We  are  bound, 
as  believers  in  God's  Word,  to  deny  our  unhallowed 
curiosity  about  the  future,  and  live  in  faith.  This, 
it  seems  to  me,  can  be  pressed  home  on  the  con- 
sciences of  all.  I  never  yet  have  seen  the  man  who 
fairly  met  the  points  of  resemblance  between  the 
modern  necromancy  and  the  ancient,  from  the  Witch 
of  Endor  to  Simon  Magus.  Something  is  condemned 
in  the  Bible  of  this  sort,  all  the  way  down.  What 
was  it,  if  not  kindred  to  spiritualism?  and  what  is 
this  if  not  kindred  to  that?" 

Letters  to  Mr.  Broughton. 

"  September  24,  1889. 

"  I  feel  the  truth  of  your  remarks  in  your  last  let- 
ter. When  men  tell  me  that  the  public  mind  will 
not  bear  this  or  that,  I  think  of  the  reply  of  Dr.  Ar- 
nold: 'I  do  not  see  how  the  public  mind  can  help 
bearing  anything  that  an  honest  man  has  the  courage 
to  say. ' 

"  I  think  evil  days  are  before  us,  but  they  are  in 
the  near  future.  Beyond  them  there  is  a  coming 
reaction.  My  faith  does  not  waver  for  a  moment. 
If  we  have  God's  truth  in  our  hands  and  on  our  lips 


LETTERS.  191 

and  pens,  He  will  take  care  of  it.  I  never  reply  to 
criticisms  of  what  I  write.  I  am  only  too  grateful 
for  the  privilege  of  saying  what  He  gives  me  to  say. 
If  men  assail  it,  I  take  that  as  a  sign  that  they  feel 
it.  Mr.  Finney  used  to  feel  that  he  was  not  accom- 
plishing much  if  nobody  got  angry.  But,  my  dear 
brother,  it  depends  on  you  laymen  what  your  min- 
isters should  preach.  The  churches  will  have  such 
preachers  as  they  want.  If  they  want  prophets  who 
prophesy  smooth  things,  they  will  have  them.  But 
the  time  will  come  when  silken  theology  will  not 
satisfy  men.     What  then  ?  " 

To  Rev.  Dr.  Dexter. 

"I  am  preparing  for  you  a  sequel  to  'Non-Inter- 
vention,' etc.  How  much  better  —  in  some  things 
—  a  man  knows  himself  than  other  men  know  him ! 
They  call  me  Pessimist  in  my  sick  old  age,  do  they? 
I  have  too  much  —  in  my  views  —  of  the  blood  of  a 
long-lived  and  cheerful  stock,  to  have  any  other  than 
a  hopeful  outlook  upon  the  world's  future.  Though 
liable  to  drop  out  of  sight  at  any  moment,  I  never  in 
my  life  felt  more  serenely  young  than  I  do  now. 

"But  I  am  giving  you  a  sign  of  dotage  in  my 
garrulity." 

"Bar  Harbor,  Me.,  July  16,  1889. 
"  When  I  discover  that  I  have  possibly  wronged  a 
man  in  my  statements  about  him,  I  feel  that  it  is  due 
both  to  him  and  myself  to  retract  those  statements 
till  I  have  more  conclusive  evidence,  meanwhile 
either  believing  nothing,  or  inclining  to  the  more 
kindly  judgment. 


192  AUSTIN   PHELPS. 

"I  have  recently  heard  an  alleged  fact  about  the 
man  of  whom  I  wrote  to  yon  last  year  which  is  in- 
consistent with  what  I  then  believed  to  be  true.  I 
cannot  reconcile  the  two  reports,  and  I  have  about 
as  much  evidence  of  the  one  as  of  the  other.  I  prefer 
to  think  the  better  thing,  if  I  think  anything,  and 
therefore  I  will  withdraw  for  the  present  the  state- 
ment I  then  made  to  you.  A  possible  calumny  is  a 
burden  which  I  do  not  wish  to  retain  on  my  con- 
science or  my  sense  of  honor." 

"Bak  Harbor,  Me.,  September  8,  1888. 

"Since  receiving  your  last  letter,  I  have  thought 
it  not  unnatural  that  you  should  attribute  my  ex- 
treme solicitude  to  a  morbid  state  of  the  brain.  You 
know  the  great  affliction  which  befell  me  a  few  years 
ago,  in  the  tragical  death  of  my  son.  Although  it 
was  accompanied  with  every  alleviation  which  could 
attend  such  a  sorrow,  yet  ...  he  was  taken  in  a 
fearful  way,  and  in  a  moment. 

"  Now  one  effect  of  the  event  on  my  mental  habits 
has  been  to  create  a  singular  sense  of  insecurity  from 
other  sorrows  yet  to  come,  which  has  never  left  me 
since  the  telegram  came  announcing  his  decease.  It 
has  become  the  permanent  habit  of  my  mind  to  feel 
that  after  such  a  blow  anything  may  follow.  Noth- 
ing can  be  too  improbable  or  too  frightful  to  be  sent 
by  Him  who  doeth  all  things  well. 

"I  will  not  trouble  you  with  the  details  in  which 
the  anticipation  clouds  my  future.  But  one  of  them 
made  itself  felt  in  my  apprehensions  about  the  mat- 
ter of  which  I  wrote  to  you." 


LETTERS.  193 

To  Rev.  Dr.  Wellman. 

"Riptox,  September  4,  1878. 

"  I  have  therefore  of  late  been  waiting  to  see  what 
God  would  do  with  me.  I  confess  that  disease  has 
shaken  my  resolution,  and  greatly  increased  the  trial 
of  leaving  my  home,  which  has  become  sacred  to  me. 
I  have  hoped  and  prayed  that  the  end  might  come 
soon,  before  I  should  be  compelled  to  quit  service, 
and  that  my  weakness,  if  such  it  be,  might  be  thus 
provided  for. 

"  They  have  treated  me  with  uniform  kindness  in 
all  such  affairs,  as  in  all  others.  I  trust  I  shall  not 
be  left  to  requite  it  with  a  grasping  spirit.  And  as 
to  the  retention  of  my  house,  my  conviction  is  very 
strong  that  it  could  be  but  for  a  little  time  that  I 
should  need  an  earthly  home.  If  I  may  with  entire 
propriety  retain  the  one  which  has  been  so  dear  to 
me,  I  shall  be  grateful." 

«  March  9,  1879. 

"  My  life-long  conviction,  often  expressed,  is  that 
my  department,  above  all  others,  demands  nearness 
of  sympathy  with  the  students,  and  therefore  by  all 
means  young  blood. 

"  Elect  not  later  than  thirty-five,  and  turn  him  out 
not  later  than  sixty-five,  is  my  principle,  and  I  mean 
myself  to  abide  by  it.  Any  other  department  will 
bear  age  better  than  this." 

"Bar  Harbor,  Me.,  July  1,  1879. 

"  I  need  not  tell  you  how  grateful  to  my  feelings 
your  letter  is.  I  am  more  than  content  with  the 
recent  action  of  the  Board,  and  now  I   look  to  the 


194  AUSTIN  PHELPS. 

future  with  a  courage  and  resolve  which  are  singu- 
lar in  nry  experience.  In  my  fifty-ninth  year,  I  feel 
that  it  would  be  wrong  in  me  to  throw  ten  years  of 
life  into  the  grave,  unless  the  Voice  from  beyond  the 
stars  calls  me  more  imperatively  than  it  has  yet  done. 
I  look  forward,  therefore,  with  great  courage  to  im- 
proved health,  and  better  work  than  I  have  yet  done. 
Be  this  an  illusion  or  not,  I  thank  God  that  I  have 
it  now. 

"I  wish  to  say  to  you  a  thing  in  confidence,  re- 
specting my  future  work,  if  I  have  any  in  reserve. 
It  shall  be  given  to  the  Seminary  if  the  Seminary 
needs  it.  I  went  to  Andover  in  great  doubt  of  my 
duty ;  I  left  the  work  in  which  my  heart  was  and  has 
been  ever  since.  Comparing  the  two  things,  I  was 
made  for  a  pastor,  not  a  teacher.  Whatever  success 
I  may  have  had  as  a  professor  has  been  at  the  cost  of 
yearnings  of  my  nature  which  have  lain  deeper  than 
my  work.  I  have  never  had  a  chance  to  go  back  to 
the  pastoral  office,  in  ever  so  humble  a  sphere,  which 
I  did  not  take  into  serious  consideration.  It  has 
therefore  been  a  dream  of  mine  for  years,  that  if  it 
should  please  God  to  give  me  a  period  of  tolerable 
health  after  my  Andover  work  was  done,  I  should  be 
very  grateful  for  it.  It  has  been  an  object  of  my 
prayers  a  long  while.  For  a  dozen  years  or  more 
my  feeling  about  it  has  been  intensified  by  my  recol- 
lections of  my  brief  pastorate  in  my  youth. 

"Those  years  are  a  source  of  unmitigated  pain  to 
me;  my  ministrations  seem  to  me  to  have  been  in 
such  glaring  contrast  to  all  that  they  ought  to  have 
been.  The  memory  of  them  has  become  such  a  bur- 
den on  my  soul,  that  it  has  often  seemed  to  me  that 


LETTERS.  195 

I  must  not,  cannot,  die,  till  I  have  had  one  more 
opportunity  to  carry  into  a  pastoral  pulpit  the  views 
of  my  riper,  and  by  the  grace  of  God  I  hope  better, 
years.  'Oh,  for  another  chance !  '  has  been  the  often 
unutterable  cry  of  my  soul  to  God.  I  must  not  in 
my  weakness  dwell  on  this. 

"  Bear  with  me,  my  brother,  for  saying  even  what 
I  have.  The  bearing  of  it  is  this :  that  if  God  does 
see  fit  to  give  me  my  desire,  I  must  preach.  I  do  not 
care  where,  or  to  whom.  If  I  can  find  a  little  flock 
anywhere  that  will  hear  me,  without  compensation  if 
need  be,  I  must  go  to  them.  Nothing  that  I  can 
now  do  for  Andover  can  be  worth  to  anybody  what 
such  a  brief  pastorate  would  be  to  me,  if  blessed  of 
God,  as  I  almost  know  it  would  be,  in  rounding  out 
my  life's  work  and  lifting  from  me  a  most  grievous 
burden. 

"I  know  this  seems  like  a  dream.  Probabilities, 
as  men  judge  of  them,  are  all  against  it;  yet  I  do 
not  despair,  for  all  that.  God  has  some  meaning  in 
giving  me  the  exercises  of  soul  on  the  subject  which 
I  have  had  for  so  many  years.  It  may  relate  to 
another  world  than  this,  but  I  hope  not." 

"  August  12,  1879. 
"It  is  a  sad  thing  to  put  one's  self  out  of  the  line 
of  God's  work  prematurely.  I  earnestly  wish  to 
avoid  that,  if  I  may.  To  me  the  chief  motive  is 
work  —  work!  I  don't  want  to  be  half  buried  before 
my  time  comes'to  lie  quietly!  " 

"  Andover,  Mass.,  October  20,  1883. 
"...   Yet  I  check  myself  in  saying  '  desolation. ' 
For  God  has  been  wonderfully  faithful  to  me.   He  pre- 


196  AUSTIN   PHELPS. 

pared  me  by  some  months  of  improving  health  to  sus- 
tain the  blow  His  hand  was  keeping  in  reserve ;  and 
when  it  came,  almost  instantly  He  disclosed  to  me 
so  many  tokens  of  His  love  in  it,  that  I  think  I  can 
truly  say  that  my  almost  constant  feeling  is  one  of 
peace  and  gratitude.  That  God  should  have  cared 
enough  for  me  and  mine  to  do  this  strange  thing,  to 
think  of  it  ages  ago,  to  plan  events  so  that  they 
should  converge  to  this  point,  —  it  seems  wonderful  to 
me !  There  must  be  some  immeasurable  good  some- 
where to  be  served  by  it,  to  induce  Him  to  do  this 
thing  to  me  and  mine.  I  hope  I  am  not  presump- 
tuous in  taking  joy  in  the  thought  that  'whom  He 
loveth  He  chasteneth. '  Why  should  I  not  believe 
and  appropriate  it  as  so  many  others  have  done  and 
been  comforted  ?  So,  at  least,  nry  mind  runs,  and  I  am 
at  rest.  I  rejoice  in  God;  'let  Him  do  what  seemeth 
to  Him  good. ' 

"  There  is  an  immeasurable  depth  of  blessedness  in 
the  thought  of  Grod.  You  know  this  more  profoundly 
than  I  can  say  it,  but  I  feel  that  I  owe  it  to  His  great 
faithfulness  to  me  to  tell  what  He  has  done  and  is 
doing  for  me.  I  understand  what  Charles  Kingsley 
meant  when  he  said,  in  the  prospect,  as  he  believed, 
of  his  wife's  death,  'It  must  be  God's  doing,  because 
it  is  so  painful  and  so  strange.'  " 

"  Axdover,  November  27,  1883. 

"  You  knew  my  son ;  you  saw  in  one  interview 
what  he  was,  and  you  know  what  he  is  to  me.  I 
thank  you  for  telling  me  your  thoughts  of  him.  I 
owe  it  to  God's  great  faithfulness  to  say  that  I  am 
supported  in  this  trouble  beyond  all  my  hopes.     Not 


LETTERS.  197 

that  I  have  any  very  great  emotional  uplifting  such 
as  some  are  blessed  with.  That  would  not  be  natu- 
ral to  me,  and  I  should  not  trust  it  much  if  I  had  it. 
But  I  have  a  calm  sense  of  rest  in  the  assurance  that 
God  has  done  this  thing. 

"My  boy  was  my  favorite  child,  so  far  as  it  is 
right  for  a  father  to  have  such, —  one  of  the  symmet- 
rical and  rounded  characters  from  which  the  world 
has  most  to  look  for.  He  never  gave  me  a  half-hour 
of  trouble.  He  was  one  of  the  chosen  ones,  and 
must  have  begun  his  immortal  life,  with  all  the 
great  and  conscious  currents  of  his  being  flowing 
towards  God  and  identified  with  God's  plans.  It  is 
a  great  thing  to  have  had  such  a  son  to  give  back  to 
Him  who  made  him.  My  impulse  is  to  say  with  one 
Duke  of  Ormond,  'I  would  rather  have  my  dead  son 
than  half  the  living  sons  of  Christendom,'  but  I 
don't  know  that  I  ought  to.  Yet  I  may  properly  say 
this :  That  if  half  the  fathers  in  Christendom  have 
such  sons  to  lose,  they  are  a  select  company  blessed 
of  God  exceedingly.  God  permits  me  to  rejoice  with 
them." 

"March  31,  1885. 

"  Their  unity  of  worship  is  better  than  our  strug- 
gling heterogeneousness  of  belief.  Their  litany 
keeps  alive  in  the  hearts  of  the  people  the  great 
essentials  of  truth  in  liturgic  form.  That  is  better 
than  no  form  at  all.  They  pray  right  at  any  rate,  if 
many  do  not  believe  aright.   .   .   . 

"  I  do  not  know  that  I  have  ever  expressed  to  you 
one  thing  which  always  comes  to  my  mind  when  I 
think  of  you.     It  is  my  deep  sense  of  your  kindness 


198  AUSTIN   PHELPS. 

and  considerateness  to  me  in  all  the  relations  we 
have  sustained  to  each  other.  Far  back,  when  you 
were  nominally  my  pupil,  but  really  my  equal, —  for 
I  could  not  then  really  teach  my  classes  much,  and  I 
knew  it, — you  were  considerate  of  my  youth,  and 
generous  and  attentive  to  my  infirm  efforts.  I  was 
very  grateful  to  these  early  classes,  and  especially  to 
four  or  five  men,  of  whom  you  were  one,  whose  de- 
meanor gave  character  to  that  of  the  rest.  You  do 
not  know  how  affectionately  I  have  followed  your 
career  and  rejoiced  in  your  success.  And  since  you 
entered  the  Board  of  Trust,  and  have  been  one  of  my 
directors,  I  have  always  found  you  a  true  friend  and 
brother.  I  have  felt  that  I  could  go  to  you  Avith 
any  tiling  which  a  man  can  tell  to  a  brother-man,  to  be 
assured  of  your  sympathy  and  counsel.  The  knowl- 
edge of  this  has  been  a  help  to  me  through  all  these 
years. 

"  Do  not  think  I  mean  to  flatter  you  —  I  can  have 
nothing  to  gain  by  that,  if  I  found  it  in  my  heart; 
but  ...  I  want  to  tell  you  what  you  have  been 
to  me,  before  I  go. 

"May  God  befriend  you  for  it!  " 

From  Letters  to  Miss  Susan  Thompson. 

"April  15,  1852. 

"For  myself,  however,  I  cannot  wholly  sympa- 
thize with  the  prevailing  feeling  around  us.  It 
seems  to  me  that  there  is  more  gloom  about  the 
usages  of  mourning  which  death  creates  than  about 
death  itself.  A  funeral  seems  to  me  more  sad  than 
dying." 


LETTERS.  199 


"  November  3,  1853. 


"  It  is  to  me  one  of  the  most  painful  mysteries  in 
God's  Providence  that  a  child  should  ever  lose  a 
father  or  a  mother  in  early  youth.  The  severest 
doctrine  of  our  faith  is  not  so  dark  to  me  as  this 
simple,  every-day  occurrence." 

"  St.  Gall,  August  19,  1854. 

"I  am  enjoying  very  much  more  than  I  expected 
to  when  I  left  London.  My  residence  at  the  Uni- 
versities on  the  Rhine  was  exceedingly  valuable  to 
me  in  every  way.  It  has  been  my  good  fortune  to 
meet  with  more  genial  and  attractive  specimens  of 
human  nature  than  travellers  generally  mention  in 
their  books.  I  have  had  occasion  in  my  letters 
home  to  speak  of  this  often.  I  certainly  have  seen 
the  kindly  side  of  the  human  heart  almost  invariably 
since  I  came  into  this  world  of  strangers.  Among 
travelling  gentlemen  residing  in  the  places  I  have 
visited,  innkeepers,  traders,  postilions,  servants, 
everywhere  I  have  met  uniform  kindness  and  good- 
nature ;  often,  too,  a  delicacy  of  interest  which  as  a 
stranger  I  could  not  have  claimed.  It  elevates  my 
respect  for  the  race  to  see  so  much  that  is  attractive. 
I  am  disposed  to  think  that  the  complaints  of  travel- 
lers are  due  quite  as  much  to  themselves  as  to  the 
people  of  these  lands." 

"Andover,  Mass.,  October  14,  1883. 

"I  have  not  felt  able  till  now  to  acknowledge 
your  kind  letter  which  came  to  me  at  Bar  Harbor. 
And  now  I  can  do  little  more  than  to  thank  you. 


200  AUSTIN    PHELPS. 

There  is  nothing  for  one  to  say  under  a  sorrow  like 
mine.  'I  was  dumb  because  Thou  didst  it.'  So  I 
feel  like  burying  my  grief  in  the  grave  of  my  boy. 
But  I  should  be  untrue  to  the  faithfulness  of  God  if 
I  did  not  add  that  my  faith  was  never  stronger  than 
now,  or  my  trust  in  the  God  of  my  fathers  more  pro- 
found and  restful.  There  must  be  somewhere  some 
immeasurable  good  to  be  served  by  such  a  waste  of 
good  here  to  justify  it  all.  I  shall  one  day  know  it, 
and  till  then  I  wait.  The  faith  I  have  preached  does 
not  fail  me,  and  it  never  will." 

To  Rev.  S.  Lewis  B.  Speake. 

"  Andover,  Mass.,  March  17,  1881. 

"  I  thank  you  for  your  kind  words  about  my  little 
waif—  'Sabbath  Hours.'  I  am  grateful  if  anybody 
has  obtained  from  it  a  helpful  word,  or  a  momentary 
uplifting  towards  the  things  unseen.  You  know 
enough  of  such  work  to  know  that  whatever  is  really 
worth  the  saying,  is  the  fruit  of  living.  It  must  be 
pressed  out  of  us  by  emergencies  which  only  He  can 
help  us  to  meet  who  sends  them  —  and  I  doubt 
whether  such  fruit  is  very  large  —  in  the  seeming  — 
in  any  man's  life.  We  really  know  but  very  little 
of  the  universe  of  truth;  most  of  our  ministrations 
are  touches  upon  a  few  strings  of  which  life  has 
taught  us  the  melody.  At  least,  it  is  so  with  me. 
1  know  vastly  less  than  I  once  did,  and  seem  to  have 
at  command  less  and  less,  as  the  years  go  by,  which 
can  possibly  be  helpful  to  anybody.  And  besides, 
the  best  things  are  things  that  cannot  be  said.  They 
must  wait  till  we  get  command  of  some  other  than 


LETTERS.  201 

human  language.  We  should  seem  to  other  men,  to 
be  fools,  or  insane,  so  jagged  are  the  incoherencies 
which  are  our  best  approaches  to  an  utterance  of  that 
which  is  within.  If,  now  and  then,  the  Spirit  help- 
eth  our  infirmities,  we  take  courage  and  —  we  print! 
Is  it  not  so?" 

To  Rev.  Mr.  Lane. 

"Indeed,  it  always  stirs  all  the  youthful  blood 
that  is  left  in  me,  to  witness  the  ordination  of  a 
young  man. 

"I  covet  the  honor  and  the  joy  and  the  toil  of 
entering  upon  one's  ministry  in  times  like  these.  It 
makes  me  think  of  Scott's  couplet, — 

"  '  'Twere  worth  ten  years  of  peaceful  life, 
One  glance  at  their  array.' 

"I  thought  I  had  some  conception  of  the  truth, 
when  I  preached  my  first  sermon.  But  it  is  marvel- 
lously magnified  by  time. 

"  As  to  my  sermon,  I  am  glad  if  you  found  any- 
thing in  it  that  chimed  with  your  feelings  on  the 
occasion,  but  I  really  am  ashamed  to  send  the  manu- 
script out  of  my  hands.     Do  excuse  me. 

"  You  tempt  my  cupidity  by  one  statement  in  your 
letter.  That  chair  of  Dr.  Hopkins!  Is  there  no 
way  in  which  I  can  steal  it?  I  have  the  table,  desk, 
chair,  and  watch  which  Professor  Stuart  used  for 
nearly  forty  years.  I  am  reserving  them  to  put  into 
our  new  library  building,  for  which  we  are  now  col- 
lecting funds.  That  chair  of  Hopkins's  ought  to  be 
added  to  the  group.     There  is  no  other  spot  in  the 


202  AUSTIN  PHELPS. 

world  to  which  it  would  be  so  becoming,  or  where  it 
would  be  revered  for  ages,  as  it  would  be  in  this  old 
Hopkinsian  Seminary.  Do  you  suppose  that  your 
friend  can  be  induced  to  part  with  it?  Please  make 
inquiry  for  me.  Can  it  be  purchased?  If  not,  can 
it  be  begged?  If  not,  can  it  be  safely  stolen  on  some 
dark  night?  If  not,  could  Louis  Napoleon  take  it 
by  a  'coup  d'etat '  ?  I  am  ready  to  start  almost  any 
earthly  power,  to  obtain  it." 

"  I  thank  you  for  your  kindness  in  forwarding 
to  me  the  relic  of  Dr.  Hopkins.  Time  has  used  it 
gently,  considering  its  age  and  the  weight  of  divin- 
ity which  it  has  borne.  I  do  not  marvel  that  it  has 
broken  down  under  the  weight  of  its  memories." 

To  Miss  Emeey. 

"  May  I  tell  you  a  bit  of  my  own  experience  in 
such  matters  ?  I  was  once  very  wide  awake  to  the 
errors  of  the  Church,  the  sins  of  good  people,  the 
cant,  the  narrowness,  the  bigotry,  and  all  the  rest  of 
it  which  has  become  the  staple  of  the  sceptical  lit- 
erature about  the  Church  and  its  orthodoxy.  I  was 
all  alive  to  it,  and  honestly  believed  that  some  great 
revolutionary  change  was  approaching  which  would 
sweep  away,  well,  pretty  much  everything  that  I  had 
been  taught  to  revere!  and  give  us  in  the  place  of 
it,  I  never  could  exactly  see  what,  and  I  cannot  now, 
but  something  very  grand  and  superexcellent;  and 
which  at  all  events  would  rid  us  of  all  the  annoy- 
ances of  human  imperfection  in  the  Church.  I  was 
very  honest  in  it  all,  but  very  egotistic,  very  bitter, 
very  uncharitable,  and  often  very  morose. 


LETTERS.  203 

"Well,  I  have  lived  a  good  many  years  since  then, 
and  think  I  have  learned  a  thing  or  two  which  a 
better  heart  and  a  holier  life  would  have  taught  me 
long  before.  Specially  it  seems  to  me  now,  that  God 
does  not  work  and  does  not  mean  to,  by  abandoning 
His  Church  and  creating  something  new  out  of  its 
ruin.  He  works  in  the  Church  and  by  means  of  it; 
yes,  in  the  old  'effete'  'shell'  of  outward  organiza- 
tion. It  is  a  better  concern  than  it  seems  to  be.  Its 
imperfections  are  among  God's  means  of  teaching. 
It  is  purer  than  anything  outside  of  it  which  the 
world  has  to  show,  with  all  its  failings.  God  con- 
descends to  live  in  it.  It  is,  therefore,  a  higher 
and  nobler  thing  than  any  other  form  of  organized 
humanity.  It  represents  in  its  ideal  the  purest 
truth.  It  has  less  of  cant,  of  bigotry,  of  narrowness, 
of  malicious  judgment,  and  more  of  all  that  good 
men  love,  than  I  can  find  elsewhere.  God  is  exalt- 
ing it  and  trying  it  as  by  fire.  He  sits  by  its  side  as 
a  refiner  of  silver.  An  honest  and  loving  heart,  with 
even  a  tolerable  clearness  of  head,  will  see  in  it  more 
of  God's  own  image  than  in  anything  else.  There- 
fore, I  cast  in  my  lot  with  it,  and  love  it  and  hope  to 
live  and  die  in  its  embrace.  Its  denominational 
forms  and  all  ?  Why,  yes ;  why  not  ?  Numbers  ne- 
cessitate separating,  with  such  materials  as  human 
nature  gives.  I  can  tolerate  these  if  God  can,  and 
so  long  as  I  can  peep  over  all  the  fences  and  see  so 
much  of  noble  living  and  earnest  praying ;  so  much 
of  patience  among  the  poor  and  benevolence  among 
the  rich,  so  much  of  enterprise  among  the  young  and 
wisdom  among  the  old ;  so  many  and  so  lovely  devel- 
opments of  downright  and  upright  holiness  of  life, 


204  AUSTIN    PHELPS. 

adjusted  to  old  conditions  of  men  and  varieties  of 
temperament,  I  haven't  much  heart  left  to  ferret  out 
abuses,  or  to  analyze  motives,  or  to  help  Anti-Christ 
in  any  form  of  it,  by  playing  into  its  hands  in  my 
judgment  of  the  Church. 

"]  was  once  a  very  stout  Congregationalist  —  a 
blue  Presbyterian.  I  thought  Episcopacy  a  sin,  and 
Romanism  of  the  devil.  I  don't  find  much  time  to 
think  of  such  things  now;  I  use  the  prayer  book 
daily;  I  have  given  up  the  old  interpretation  of 
Scripture  which  thought  no  good  of  the  Catholic 
Church.  I  find  a  great  deal  of  piety  there  and 
everywhere  where  Christ  is  owned  as  the  living 
Head.  I  work  Congregationally,  because  I  must 
work  somewhere,  and  am  neither  wise  enough  nor 
strong  enough  to  work  alone,  and  am  not  such  a  fool 
as  to  throw  away  nine-tenths  of  my  power  for  good 
by  trying  to  work  in  ecclesiastical  solitude.  But 
I  could  work  just  as  well  in  half  a  dozen  other  or- 
ganic forms  of  Church  life. 

"But  the  Church  life  in  some  form  I  must  have. 
Something  or  other  in  the  Church  as  it  is,  is  very  dear 
to  Christ.  He  always  has  worked  and  lived  in  it, 
and  He  always  will.  Therefore  I  grow  to  be  more 
and  more  of  a  churchman  as  the  years  go  by.  I  love 
her  ancient  life  and  her  noble  history.  Her  old 
songs  thrill  me,  and  I  find  more  poetry  in  her  life 
to-day  than  all  literature  discloses  to  me.  The 
Sandwich  Islands  and  Madagascar  are  poems  tome; 
Moody  and  Sankey  are  others. 

"This  is  the  lesson  which  my  life  has  taught  me, 
and  is  confirming  me  in  all  the  while:  that  God  is 
in  the  Church  as  He  is  nowhere  else,  and  that  this 


LETTERS. 


205 


world  sinks  or  swims  with  this  divinely  formed  em- 
bodiment of  holy  living;  and  that  so  long  as  God's 
patience  can  bear  the  infirmities  of  the  Church,  I 
ought  to  bear  them  with  loving  charity." 

"  '  Go  out  into  ethereal  space,  revolve  around  some- 
thing else  than  self,  obey,  serve,  do  fealty  to  the 
great  silent  laws  of  God's  love,  s<>  shall  thou  know 
that  thou  art  Christ's  and  Christ  is  thine'  Such 
seems  to  be  the  voice  from  on  high.  Every  test  of 
character  turns  at  last  on  this  freeness  from  self  as  an 
object  of  concentration." 

"Andovek,  Mass.,  April  0,  1872. 

"Eternity,  I  fear,  will  make  sad  havoc  with  the 
images  of  some  of  us,  as  we  are  in  the  mirror  of  our 
friends'  judgment  of  us.     I  would  give  a  great  deal 
for  a  half-hour's  consciousness  of  the  qualities  you 
see  in  my  photograph.      As  to  my  health,   I  am  in 
such  a  quandary  I  cannot  answer  your  inquiries  very 
intelligently.     I  do  not  suppose  there  is  any  struc- 
tural disease,  as  yet;  but  that  I  am  living  in  a  worn- 
out  condition  of  the  nervous  system,  somewhat  like 
that  of  Dr.  Holmes's  'One  I  loss  Shay.'     Meanwhile 
disease  skirmishes   with  almost  every  organ  of  the 
system  by  turns,  and  manages  to  keep  the  brain  in  a 
constant  state  of  irritation.     My  hope  is  that  some- 
thing else  will  give  way  before  that.     I  wish  to  go 
out  of  this  body  thoughtfully  when  the  time  comes. 
It  would  be  very  sad  to  go  raving  or  drivelling.      1 
have  a  dim  conjecture  that  somewhere  between  this 
and  heaven,  a  departing  soul  gets  a  glimpse  of,  per- 
haps a  contact  and  conflict  with  the  Powers  of  Evil, 
in  which  it  obtains  an  indelible  conception  of  what 


206  AUSTIN   PHELPS. 

sin  is  —  its  own  sin  especially;  so  that  it  enters  on 
an  eternal  career  with  a  sense  of  sin  and  of  Christ 
which  is  as  eternal  as  its  life.  I  want  to  meet  the 
change  with  all  my  'wits  about  me.'  But  it  will  be 
as  God  wills,  and  so  would  I  have  it. 

"If  my  'wits  '  go,  it  may  make  more  room  for  His. 
A  sense  of  unimportance  and  unworthiness  should 
keep  one  very  still  in  a  matter  so  exclusively  belong- 
ing to  the  hidden  things  of  God." 

"  Ripton,  Vt.,  September  2,  1877. 

"I  have  just  sent  off  to  the  Congregationalist 
six  articles,  the  fruit  of  my  vacation  work,  and  my 
winter's  contribution  to  the  weekly  press,  —  a  sort  of 
penance  which  I  pay  for  my  seclusion  from  the 
pulpit. 

"  The  last  one  has  been  goading  me  to  a  deliver- 
ance for  the  year  past.  I  call  it  '  The  Theology  of 
the  Marble  Faun.'  In  reading  that  marvellous  pro- 
duction of  Hawthorne's,  I  was  impressed  with  the 
fact  that  with  no  religious  design,  still  less  with 
theological  design,  he  has  painted  a  most  thrilling 
picture  of  sin  as  it  is,  and  as  it  works  in  human 
souls.  Our  old  Puritanic  theology  on  the  subject  is 
there,  without  abatement  or  apology. 

"  So  it  is  with  genius  everywhere.  To  make  any- 
thing thrillingly  true,  men  have  to  fall  back  on  the 
old  theology.  The  Greek  drama,  and  the  tragic 
drama  from  that  time  down  to  ours,  dealt  with  the 
same  problem  of  Destiny  and  Sovereignty,  which  has 
given  to  Calvinism  its  imperial  sway  in  the  world. 
So  Dr.  Holmes,  while  sputtering  at  that  theology  on 
one  page,  has  to  fall  back  on  'original  sin  '  when  he 


LETTERS.  207 

wants  to  make  something  powerful  in  'Elsie  Ven- 
ner. '  So  George  Eliot,  while  her  own  faith  is  expir- 
ing, still  has  to  retreat  to  it  and  raise  it  from  the 
dead  to  give  artistic  truthfulness  to  the  dissection  of 
the  hypocritical  banker's  conscience  —  what's  his 
name?  Then  when  the  book  comes  out,  the  whole 
corps  of  literary  critics  —  Westminster  included  — 
fill  the  heavens  with  the  exclamation,  'How  true  to 
nature !  —  what  real  life !  ' 

"  Now  either  the  critics  and  the  authors  are  right, 
or  they  are  not.  If  not,  so  much  the  worse  for  their 
literary  discernment ;  but  if  they  are,  what  becomes 
of  their  flings  at  Calvinism?  Calvinism  assumes 
that  sin  is  first  what  Genius  says  it  is  in  its  reading 
of  real  life.  On  those  facts  of  sin  the  whole  struc- 
ture is  built.  So,  gentlemen,  I  am  alert  to  ask,  on 
which  turn  of  the  dilemma  will  you  toss  ?  Such  is 
the  drift  of  my  article." 

"  Andover,  Mass.,  April  5, 1883. 
"I  have  revised  and  put  to  press  a  book  the  last 
winter  which  will  soon  be  out.  I  have  not  done 
more  work  than  that,  in  equal  time,  for  a  dozen 
years.  Yet,  at  the  age  of  sixty-two,  the  end  cannot 
be  far  off,  and  though  I  prefer  this  world  to  anything 
I  know  of  any  other,  yet  I  have  great  peace  in  having 
no  will  about  the  'time  of  the  end.'  I  feel  an  un- 
speakable pity  for  the  poor  wise  men  who  haven't 
found  out  whether  there  is  a  God,  or  whether  they 
have  souls  or  not.     God  have  mercy  on  them!  " 

"Bar  Harbor,  Me.,  September  8,  1888. 
"  I  have  for  twenty-five  years  been  impressed  and 
oppressed  by  a  sense  of  our  home  work  for  the  world's 


208  AUSTIN  PHELPS. 

salvation.  When  I  went  to  Andover,  I  found  there 
a  morbid  feeling  about  the  superior  godliness  of  the 
foreign  missionary  service,  a  relic,  I  suppose,  of  the 
romance  of  its  infancy.  Young  men  were  made  to 
believe  that  if  they  meant  to  be  pre-eminent  Chris- 
tians, they  must  go  to  India.  I  think  a  good  deal  of 
unconscious  self-righteousness  went  out  with  some 
very  good  men  in  that  notion  of  the  relative  value  of 
the  two  departments  of  the  great  work. 

"I  became,  from  the  first,  imbued  with  the  idea 
of  divine  election  in  the  destiny  of  this  country.  We 
were  and  are  an  elect  people,  as  truly  as  ever  Israel 
was,  and  good  strategy  required  the  Christianizing  of 
this  nation  first.  Whatever  else  might  lag,  the  work 
here  must  not  lag.  Indeed,  the  most  fatal  wa}r  to 
make  everything  lag,  was  to  let  the  home  work  be 
secondary.  This  has  been  my  theory.  I  have  fought 
for  it  at  Andover,  by  trying  to  create  a  truer  balance 
of  religious  feeling  among  the  students.  It  some- 
times required  a  good  deal  of  quiet  pluck  to  defend 
the  right  of  a  man  to  stay  at  home  if  he  wanted  to, 
and  to  save  him  from  the  sense  of  having  lowered  his 
standard  of  character  in  doing  so.  Now  and  then,  if 
a  first-class  man  debated  the  question  of  going  abroad, 
—  as  I  taught  them  all  to  do, —  if  he  decided  not  to 
go,  it  was  a  cause  of  mourning  among  the  friends  of 
foreign  missions.  The  feeling  was  like  that  of  men 
who  see  a  flag  at  half  mast. 

"Even  so  late  as  when  Dr.  W.,  of  Dakota,  chose 
that  field  rather  than  Western  Asia,  I  found  it  nec- 
essary to  defend  him. 

"  I  am  making  a  long  story  of  it,  but  this  has  been 
my  estimate  of  this  country  as  the  centre  of  the  world 


LETTERS.  209 

in  Christian  work.  The  success  of  the  Civil  War 
removed  the  chief  obstacle  to  a  practical  applica- 
tion of  the  theory.  Since  the  war  things  have  gone 
with  a  rush  which  is  awful.  No  words  can  express 
my  conception  of  the  crisis,  the  peril,  the  oppor- 
tunity. 

"I  don't  know  whether  I  ought  to  thank  you  for 
3^our  sketch.  Do  you  know,  I  couldn't  get  through 
it  without  tears  of  humiliation  ?  Oh,  if  it  could  but 
be  made  true !  I  mean  to  write  an  article,  if  I  ever 
have  the  vim  for  it,  on  'The  lessons  to  be  learned 
from  the  exaggerated  estimates  of  good  men  by  their 
friends  and  admirers.'  Yet  I  wonder  if  some  of  it 
isn't  true  —  a  little!  We  cannot  all  be  fools  in  our 
thinking  of  men  and  women  to  whom  we  are  grate- 
ful for  intellectual  or  moral  help.  No,  it  cannot  be ; 
yet  —  and  yet  —  if  it  is  'what  thrice-mocked  fools  we 
are !  '  So  much  of  the  best  that  is  in  us  consists  of 
our  great  ideals  of  the  great  and  the  good,  living 
and  dead!  I  know  a  man  the  thought  of  whom 
has  been  my  North  Star  for  fifty  years.  Then  think 
of  the  mothers  of  the  world,  the  saints  and  angels 
to  their  children.  How  easy  it  would  be  to  pray 
to  them." 

"  Bar  Harbor,  Me.,  July  3,  1889. 

"I  am  not  yet  able  to  write  much  more  than  to 
thank  you  for  your  letter. 

"Why  is  it  that  physical  pain  is  so  hard  to  bear? 
It  is  almost  the  only  thing  about  which  I  am  cow- 
ardly. I  think  I  have  some  moral  courage.  I  do 
not  remember  a  time  in  which  it  was  a  trial  to  me  to 
be  one  of  a  minority.  ...     As  a  boy  I  could  never 


210  AUSTIN   PHELPS. 

fight;  but  in  college  I  was  the  only  anti-slavery  man 
in  the  crowd,  and  I  enjoyed  the  solitude  of  my 
opinion.  You  are  nearer  heaven  than  I  am.  You 
wish  to  go  there.  You  do  me  honor  overmuch  in 
thinking  that  I  do.  I  do  not,  and  never  did.  No 
suffering  has  ever  yet  made  me  wish  to  die.  I 
sympathize  profoundly  with  the  Englishman,  an 
excellent  Christian,  who  was  comforted  on  his  death- 
bed by  friends  who  reminded  him  of  the  better  world 
to  which  he  was  going,  and  who  answered,  'Yes,  I 
believe  all  that ;  but  I  would  rather  stay  in  a  world 
where  I  am  better  acquainted. ' 

"  I  have  never  attained  a  nobler  height  than  to  be 
able  to  say  that  the  Lord's  time  for  me  to  go  is  my 
time.  I  have  great  peace  in  that  consciousness  of 
oneness  with  Him." 

"  Bar  Harbor,  Me.,  June  17,  1890. 

"  I  wish  I  were  able  to  write  at  some  length  about 
your  Southern  and  mountain  work.  It  is  the  only 
line  of  work  in  which  I  see  any  hope  for  the  regen- 
eration of  the  South.  I  feel  very  little  hope  in  any 
political  experiments,  elections,  laws,  and  the  like. 
If  they  do  not  initiate  another  civil  war,  I  shall  re- 
joice. We  began  at  the  wrong  end  in  giving  the 
ballot  to  the  freedmen,  educating  them  by  means  of 
it  instead  of  educating  them  as  other  voters  are,  by 
preparatory  working.  The  man  must  have  a  singu- 
lar confidence  in  his  earlier  wisdom  who  has  learned 
nothing  from  the  last  twenty-five  years.  If  there  is 
one  hopeful  sign  outside  of  the  moral  and  educa- 
tional work  for  the  freedmen,  I  have  failed  to  dis- 
cover it. 


LETTERS.  211 

"  I  took  my  pen  only  to  thank  yon  for  your  letter 
and  papers.  But  I  am  already  exhausted.  Frag- 
ments of  an  article  on  the  duty  of  the  North  to  the 
South  lie  unwoven  in  my  portfolio.  Whether  I 
shall  live  to  finish  it  I  do  not  know.  But  oh,  there 
is  so  much  to  be  said  and  done,  that  one  longs  to 
live  and  have  a  hand  in  it!  Yet  how  silly  it  is  to 
feel  so,  God  has  so  little  need  of  the  best  of  us.  I 
have  been  listening  to  my  good  wife's  reading  of  the 
best  story  of  Dr.  Livingston.  If  the  great  dark  con- 
tinent did  not  need  him,  how  little  does  this  world 
need  us  ?  No ;  let  us  abide  our  time,  and  go  when 
the  call  comes,  to  a  world  where  we  shall  see  things 
as  they  are.  You  do  not  know  how  my  soul  longs  to 
get  into  closer  friendship  with  Christ  and  to  pray  — 
which  is  about  the  only  mode  of  usefulness  left  to 
me  —  as  He  prayed!  To  touch  the  springs  which 
move  the  universe  as  He  touched  them !  —  one  can 
almost  feel  the  electric  thrill  of  it.  What  have  these 
poor  creatures  to  live  for,  to  whom  such  a  thought  is 
only  a  meteor  from  an  unknown  world?" 

To  Rev.  Dr.  Ray  Palmer. 

"  Andover,  Mass.,  March  22,  1865. 
"I  have  been  driven  to  the  conviction  that  this 
whole  subject  of  ministerial  education  is  embarrassed 
by  the  fact  that  so  large  a  proportion  of  our  religious 
young  men  start  from  a  wrong  level,  either  of  relig- 
ious experience  or  of  information  about  the  pastoral 
service,  or  both ;  and  that  any  great  improvement  in 
respect  to  the  numbers  of  the  right  kind  of  men  in 
the  ministry  must  be  effected  by  striking  very  far 
back  in  the  history  of  young  men. 


212  AUSTIN   PHELPS. 

"You  will  not  think  me  severe,  I  hope,  in  the 
judgment  which  is  implied  by  what  I  am  about  to 
say.  I  have  not  come  to  my  opinion  on  the  subject 
till  years  of  rather  painful  observation  have  com- 
pelled me. 

"I  think  I  speak  within  bounds  in  saying  that 
four-fifths  of  our  young  candidates  for  the  ministry 
come  to  their  work  with  very  exaggerated  ideas  of 
the  worldly  comfort,  the  advantages  of  position,  the 
amount  of  pecuniary  emolument,  and  opportunity  of 
social  culture  which  they  shall  probably  command  in 
the  ministry.  Disappointment  in  these  respects,  I 
think,  is  a  good  deal  more  general  than  the  ministry 
themselves  would  be  willing  to  confess.  I  judge 
this  from  conversations  with  young  men  before  and 
after  their  settlement  in  the  ministry,  from  the  tenor 
of  a  very  large  part  of  my  correspondence  with  minis- 
ters who  are  seeking  places  of  settlement,  or  who 
wish  to  leave  the  places  where  they  are,  and  from  the 
statements  of  committees  of  our  larger  churches  as 
to  the  applications  they  receive  for  the  use  of  their 
vacant  pulpits. 

"  La*>t  week  a  young  minister  came  to  me  for  aid 
in  rinding  a  place  of  settlement,  who  had  just  left  an 
excellent  people  and  a  salary  of  a  thousand  dollars 
because  he  wanted  a  larger  amount ;  yet  he  had  no 
family  but  a  wife.  A  short  time  ago  another  came, 
having  just  left  a  good  farming  parish,  where  he  had 
eight  hundred  dollars,  because  he  wanted  to  be 
nearer  to  some  large  city.  This  morning  a  letter 
reached  me,  asking  for  an  introduction  to  some 
church  where  a  large  and  cultivated  audience  can  be 
found.     A  minister  from  Vermont  writes  me  that  he 


LETTERS.  213 

'feels  stifled'  by  the  want  of  culture  among  his 
'average  of  five  hundred  hearers  ' ;  he  wants  to  go  to 
Cambridge.  Another  from  Maine,  three  from  Massa- 
chusetts, one  from  New  Jersey,  one  from  Ohio,  one 
from  Pennsylvania,  and  two  from  Connecticut,  occur 
to  me  among  my  correspondents,  who  are  all  op- 
pressed with  the  same  sense  of  a  'call'  to  preach 
either  to  city  congregations,  or  to  audiences  of  culti- 
vated tastes,  or  to  the  wealth  of  the  land.  One  man 
has  been  without  a  settlement  four  years,  and  another 
seven  years,  because  they  cannot  find  a  place  large 
enough  for  their  aspirations,  and  each  has  declined 
several  calls  in  the  meanwhile. 

"These  are  specimens  of  facts  which  I  could 
enumerate  more  largely.  Alongside  of  these  I  must 
place  the  fact  that  to  a  large  majority  of  the  applica- 
tions I  receive  from  churches  which  are  few  in  num- 
bers, with  small  audiences  and  small  salaries,  I  am 
obliged  to  give  a  negative  answer:  I  can  find  very 
few  men  for  such  parishes. 

"Do  not  misinterpret  here  my  opinion  of  these 
young  brethren  in  the  ministry,  and  approaching  it, 
to  whom  I  refer.  I  do  not  in  my  heart  suppose  that 
they  are  worse  than  the  rest  of  us.  Many  of  them  I 
know  to  be  earnest  and  godly  men.  Generally  there 
is  a  simplicity  in  the  way  in  which  they  acknowledge 
their  wishes  and  motives,  which  indicates  plainly 
that  they  are  unconscious  of  wrong  in  the  matter. 
It  seems  to  them  that  they  are  pursuing  the  proper 
and  legitimate  way  of  'improving  their  condition' 
in  the  ministry,  as  they  would  in  any  other  profes- 
sion. I  am  often  led  to  ask  myself  whether  they  are 
not   a   fair   sample   of   the   stratum   of   clerical  and 


214  AUSTIN  PHELPS. 

Christian  experience  from  which  they  come,  and  of 
which  we  are  all  a  part.  I  am  very  keenly  sensible 
of  the  disadvantage  which  I  labor  under  in  endeav- 
oring to  correct  their  views,  while  I  live  in  a  'ceiled 
house'  and  wear  'fine  linen,'  and  live  in  compara- 
tive luxury,  with  every  advantage  for  personal  cul- 
ture which  I  can  desire.  It  may  be  that  I  am  one  of 
the  last  men  in  the  world  who  ought  even  to  be  writ- 
ing these  lines.  Yet  somebody  must  move  for  the 
accomplishment  of  this  definite  object,  viz. :  to  reduce 
the  competition  of  ministers  for  'good  places,'  and 
to  provide  ministers  for  poor  ones. 

"  This  leads  me  to  the  point  where  my  suggestions 
cross  the  line  of  your  report.  Cannot  something  be 
done,  somehow,  to  work  this  idea  into  the  minds  of 
young  men  who  may  be  induced  to  think  of  the  min- 
isterial work,  that  city  churches,  parishes  in  large 
towns,  iv ell-paying  places  in  general,  and  positions  of 
superior  facilities  for  culture,  are  in  no  want  of  min- 
isters ?  That  is  to  say,  that  the  benevolent  and  chari- 
table efforts  of  the  churches  to  raise  up  a  ministry, 
need  not  be  directed  that  way ;  that  the  law  of  sup- 
ply and  demand  will,  in  the  long  run,  take  care  of 
such  positions ;  that  we  are  not  at  all  anxious  to  seek 
out  young  men  for  them,  or  to  induce  men  to  enter 
the  ministry  with  the  expectation  of  filling  them; 
that  we  want  men  for  poor  parishes,  with  hard  labor 
and  small  remuneration ;  and  that  of  such  men  there 
is  practically  no  limit  to  the  number  we  need.  We 
want  men  for  a  strictly  missionary  service,  —  a  more 
self-denying  service  than  that  of  four-fifths  of  our 
foreign  missionaries, —  and  practically  we  don't  want 
ministers  for  any  other  service.     That  is  to  say,  I 


LETTERS.  215 

repeat,  the  law  of  supply  and  demand  will  take  care 
of  all  other  service.  You  will  understand  these 
strong  statements  with  all  necessary  qualifications. 
I  am  very  solicitous  to  get  the  main  fact  strongly 
before  the  Christian  mind  of  the  land;  that  we  want 
an  unlimited,  supply  of  home  missionaries,  and  nothing 
else,  so  far  as  the  home  field  is  concerned.   .   .   . 

"I  must  beg  you  again  to  make  all  the  necessary 
qualifications  of  my  remarks,  as  they  seem  to  affect 
an  opinion  of  the  Christian  character  of  our  ministry. 
My  heart  opens  to  them  very  warmly,  and  I  do  not 
judge  them  in  this  thing  otherwise  than  I  would  be 
judged.  Whatever  they  are,  I  am  one  of  them,  and 
all  my  preachments  on  this  subject  I  have  tried  to 
take  home  to  my  own  conscience  a  great  many  times. 
Yet  it  does  seem  to  me  that  clerical  opinion  of  the 
clerical  office  among  us  is  in  danger  of  drifting 
towards  the  ideal  of  it  which  is  so  common  in  the 
Church  of  England.   .   .   . 

"  I  have  not  alluded  to  the  palliations  of  our  cleri- 
cal shrinking  from  home-missionary  fields,  found  in 
the  criminal  neglect  of  congregations  to  pay  their 
clergy  to  the  extent  of  their  ability.  Such  pallia- 
tions are  abundant,  as  everybody  knows.  But,  after 
all,  my  mind  falls  back  upon  this  principle:  that 
we,  as  ministers  of  Christ,  must  take  the  world  as 
we  find  it,  and,  well-paid  or  not,  we  must  preach. 
The  palliation  does  not  help  us  much  as  practical 
men,  intent  on  doing  the  work  we  are  sent  into  the 
world  for. 

"How  ancient  everything  and  everybody  seems 
that  lived  and  worked  before  the  great  Rebellion! 
The  Old  Testament  and  the  Ncav  are  hardly  sepa- 


216  AUSTIN   PHELPS. 

rated  by  a  bolder  or  broader  line  of  demarcation  than 
that  which  divides  the  'Ante  '  and  the  'Post '  of  that 
terrible  epoch.  What  a  stupendous  life  is  ours 
which  extends  on  both  sides  of  such  a  line  as  that!" 

"  Andover,  Mass.,  April  8,  1865. 

"I  cannot  but  congratulate  you  on  the  eternal 
inheritance  which  a  man  receives  in  being  made  the 
author  of  one  good  hymn  which  lives  in  the  hearts 
of  God's  people.  Cowper's  lifelong  insanity  has 
sometimes  seemed  to  me  hardly  too  much  to  pay  for 
the  authorship  of  'There  is  a  Fountain.'  So  of  the 
very  dear  hymn  which  commences  your  volume :  it 
is  a  great  thing  to" have  been  permitted  to  write  it." 

"  Andover,  Mass.,  March  8,  1868. 

"I  thank  you  very  sincerely  for  your  recent  letter, 
and  for  the  kind  words  you  speak  about  my  little 
tract.  It  was  the  fruit  of  one  of  my  invalid  Sab- 
baths, of  which  I  have  spent  so  many  in  my  study, 
often  with  the  sound  of  the  chapel  worship  coming 
to  my  ear  very  sweetly  through  the  open  windows. 
I  have  no  idea  that  the  tract  will  reach  any  larger 
number  of  readers.  Most  of  us  are  too  busy  for  such 
thoughts  to  seem  very  real.  Some,  too,  whom  I 
know,  seem  to  have  a  sense  of  fellowship  with  'the 
saints, ' — -living  and  departed, —  which  makes  utter 
solitude,  apparently,  an  unknown  experience  to 
them.  I  published,  however,  at  the  suggestion  of 
two  or  three  invalids,  and  hope  the  little  affair  may 
do  some  good  to  such.  The  longer  I  live,  the  more 
highly  I  value  the  privilege  of  putting  even  one 
Christian  idea  in  away  which  makes  it  real  —  per- 


LETTERS.  217 

haps  a  lifelong  reality  —  to  a  few  Christian  souls. 
It  is  but  little  subsoiling  that  any  one  man  can  do  in 
the  great  field  in  a  lifetime.  It  will  not  surprise  me, 
if,  when  our  work  is  tried  as  by  fire,  we  should  find 
that  the  choicest  good  we  have  done  has  been  in 
things  which  went  from  us  spontaneously,  and  of 
which  we  did  not  think  much  in  the  doing  of  them. 
Yet  they  may  have  been  the  secret  fruit  of  many 
struggles. 

"  I  have  been  reading  lately  a  book  of  Isaac  Tay- 
lor's—  'Ultimate  Civilization'  — which,  though  pub- 
lished in  England  some  ten  years  ago,  I  had  not  seen 
before.  What  a  marvellous  fund  of  original  thinking 
that  man  had!  I  doubt  whether  there  has  been  an- 
other man  of  our  times  to  whom  the  clergy  are  in- 
debted unconsciously  for  so  much  material  of  thought 
as  to  him.  He  has  a  curious  speculation  about  the 
help  which  non-professional  minds  have  given  to  the 
world's  progress,  theology  included.  He  makes  out 
a  good  case  in  some  respects  —  starting  with  the  fact 
that  most  of  the  heroic  characters  under  the  Jewish 
dispensation  were  not  of  the  tribe  of  Levi.  If  you 
find  time  to  look  at  the  book,  you  would  find  much 
to  stimulate  thought,  if  you  have  not  already  seen  it." 

"  Andover,  Mass.,  January  11,  1877. 

"  I  have  tried  in  my  articles  to  do  the  fair  thing, 
as  between  the  foreign  and  the  home  work.  In  doing 
that,  I  justify  the  general  preference  of  students  for 
the  latter,  as  being  at  least  a  choice  which  does  not 
deserve  rebuke.  I  wish  you  would  observe  the  bear- 
ing of  my  articles  on  that  subject,  and  if  they  suggest 
anything  to  you  which  would  help  to  rectify  the  pro- 


218  AUSTIN   PHELPS. 

portions  of  the  home  and  the  foreign  work  in  the 
estimation  of  the  public,  by  all  means  publish  your 
vision. 

"In  the  Seminary  I  have  had  to  contend  in  more 
ways  than  one  with  the  romance  of  foreign  missions, 
and  the  disposition  to  coddle  them.  In  the  effort  to 
teach  the  true  ideal  of  the  pulpit  everywhere,  I  have 
had  to  cross  the  track  of  that  spirit  which  makes 
preaching  to  the  heathen  a  work  of  special  grace  and 
a  sign  of  special  piety.  I  suppose  that  this  is  the 
real  cause  of  my  imagined  'indifference'  to  the  for- 
eign service. 

"I  would  not  utter  a  word  to  cool  the  ardor  of 
anybody  in  the  foreign  work;  yet  I  confess  that  the 
home  work  does  loom  up  before  me  with  a  painful 
and  threatening  magnitude,  which  suggests  the 
query  whether  it  is  reasonable  to  expect  much  ex- 
pansion of  the  foreign  service  before  the  home  field 
is  more  thoroughly  mastered.  There  is  a  law  of  give 
and  take  in  these  things  which  is  as  inexorable  in 
the  work  of  the  world's  conversion  as  in  any  other. 
We  cannot  convert  Asia  without  a  certain  amount  of 
spiritual  power  at  home.  We  cannot  give  what  we 
have  not  received.  And  the  power  at  home  must 
come  from  a  broader  and  deeper  spiritual  culture ; 
and  this  must  take  time,  money,  and  labor,  and 
prayer.  What  other  view  of  it  can  be  either  philo- 
sophical or  Scriptural?  'Beginning  at  Jerusalem': 
such  was  our  Lord's  direction  to  the  apostles  at  the 
outset  of  the  great  work.  There  is  the  central  law 
of  missions,  as  it  seems  to  me,  for  all  time.  We 
must  keep  the  home  work  well  in  hand,  and  uplifted 
above  all  chance  of  failure,   or  we  cannot   get   the 


LETTERS.  219 

power  to  impart  anything  to  the  heathen  mind. 
Every  missionary  in  Nebraska,  left  to  struggle  for 
dear  life,  and  every  church  left  houseless  in  Dakota, 
represent  just  so  much  deficit  of  spiritual  force  in 
Japan.  To  begin  at  the  other  end,  exalting  the  for- 
eign work  to  the  head  of  the  column  is  reversing  the 
law  of  gravitation.  I  do  firmly  believe  that  that 
drift  of  inquiry  and  decision  which  results  in  giving 
to  the  great  majority  of  our  ministry  home  work  to 
do,  is  rather  obedience  to  a  deeper  law  of  spiritual 
success  than  to  any  selfish  tastes.  It  is  simply  the 
power  of  the  Holy  Ghost  moving  the  men  to  the 
places  where  the  greatest  results  are  practicable. 

"  But  I  am  preaching ;  and  to  one  who  least  needs 
it  from  me." 

"  Andover,  Mass.,  February  12,  1878. 

"If  I  were  to  live  my  life  over  again,  I  think  I 
should  emulate  your  example  in  the  matter  of  corre- 
spondence. It  is  certainly  true  that,  in  the  later 
years  of  culture  at  least,  one's  best  thoughts  come 
to  one  in  the  easy  hours  of  fraternal  conference. 
Did  you  ever  philosophize  upon  it?  Why  is  it  that 
we  find  richer  thoughts  and  more  versatility  in  Ar- 
nold's letters  than  in  his  histories  ?  Why  are  Leonard 
WithhiQ-ton's  conversations  so  much  more  brilliant 
than  his  sermons  ?  Recreation  in  these  men  is  more 
fruitful  than  labor.  I  suspect  we  are  all  of  us  in 
some  degree  subject  to  the  same  law.  It  is  a  curi- 
ous phenomenon  in  literature  at  any  rate.  I  think 
I  got  from  Professor  Stuart  and  Albert  Barnes,  both 
of  whom  were  penurious  letter-writers,  a  lurch  ad- 
verse to  such  work,  which  I  am  sorry  for. 


220  AUSTIN"   PHELPS. 

"  I  write  of  what  happens  to  be  fresh  in  my  mind. 
I  am  glad  if  you  like  my  Articles  on  Creeds.  I 
wrote  them  three  times  over,  lest  I  should  say  some 
unwise  thing." 

"  Andover,  Mass.,  October  26,  1880. 

"  I  wish  I  could  respond  to  your  welcome  letter  in 
its  own  contented  and  cheerful  strain ;  but  honestly 
I  cannot.  Though  I  am  not  conscious  of  a  murmur- 
ing thought  against  God  or  man,  yet  I  do  feel  that 
the  hand  of  God  is  heavy  upon  me,  and  mysteriously 
so,  in  withdrawing  me  so  early  from  the  work  I  love. 
Think  of  it!  At  the  age  of  fifty-nine!  Just  the 
time  when  most  men  begin  to  ripen,  when  intellect- 
ual culture  begins  to  gather  round  itself  the  mellow 
graces  of  maturing  character;  just  then,  to  be  called 
to  enter  a  valley  of  suffering  and  of  humiliation,  in 
the  consciousness  of  premature  decay !  I  do  feel  it 
—  I  cannot  help  it.  Time  does  not  yet  lighten  it. 
It  rather  grows  in  weight. 

"  Much  of  this,  I  doubt  not,  is  due  to  the  fact  that 
I  am  rarely  for  an  hour  free  from  pain,  and  all  brain- 
work  aggravates  it.  Of  course  I  must  expect  a  mor- 
bid outlook  on  the  future,  so  long  as  this  condition 
of  things  lasts.  I  have  good  reason  to  hope  that  it 
will  not  last  to  the  end  of  life.  But  even  for  a  year 
of  it,  one  needs  a  closer  nearness  to  God  than  I  have. 
One  needs  to  feel  grateful  for  suffering:  and  that  I 
have  not  gained.  Submission,  trust,  reverence  for 
the  mystery  which  I  would  not  change ;  all  this  I 
feel,  but  this  seems  to  me  the  infancy  of  a  life  that 
is  hid  with  Christ.    .    .   . 

"  The  Litany  of  the  Episcopal  Church  has  become 


LETTERS.  221 

very  precious  to  me.  It  is  a  wonderful  example  of 
precative  style;  and  the  depth  of  its  meaning,  it 
seems  to  me,  nobody  can  fathom  who  has  not  experi- 
enced some  great  sorrow.  We  have  lost  much  in 
parting  with  some  of  the  prayers  of  the  old  Mother 
Church.  And  what  have  we  gained  in  their  place  ? 
I  read  this  week  the  prayer  of  ordination  by  Professor 

at  a  recent  Council.     It  was  perfect  in  its  way; 

perhaps  as  faultless  a  specimen  of  extemporaneous 
prayer  as  can  be  well  conceived.  I  find  no  fault  in 
it, —  absolutely  none:  yet  I  do  not  feel  in  it  the 
deep  undertone  of  devotion  which  rings  out  from 
some  of  the  old  Collects  of  the  Church  like  the  sound 
of  ancient  bells.  The  Church  takes  a  great  risk  in 
severing  herself  ever  from  her  history.  Nothing  else 
in  this  world  lias  such  a  history;  with  so  much  of 
man's  immortality  in  it,  and  therefore  so  much  of 
God's  Eternity!  I  wonder  if  the  destiny  of  some  of 
us  in  heaven  may  not  be  a  reverent  and  studious  liv- 
ing in  the  Past?  Can  we  conceive  of  any  other 
world  as  having  such  a  Past  for  the  education  of 
infant  races  ? 

"  Even  the  secularities  of  life  here  become  sacred 
things  if  seen  in  their  real  perspective  towards 
Christ's  life.  I  am  impressed  anew  with  this  in 
reading,  this  week,  Dr.  Hamlin's  'Among  the 
Turks.'  A  laundry  and  a  bake-house,  built  into 
such  a  life  as  his,  become  Temples  of  the  Holy 
Ghost.  What  can  Gabriel,  or  the  Angels  of  the 
Four  Winds,  be  doing  more  sublime  than  that  work 
which  was  going  on  on  the  banks  of  the  Bosphorus, 
in  the  Crimean  War?  Ah!  it  is  a  sad  thing  to  lie 
still,  and  wait,  and  look  on,  and  suffer,  in  a  world 
of  such  possibilities ! 


222  AUSTIN  PHELPS. 

"  Yet  do  not  think  of  me  as  one  mourning  without 
hope.  I  am  only  passing  through  the  Valley  of 
Humiliation :  that  is  all.  I  accept  it  —  I  dare  not 
ask  deliverance  from  it.  Be  it  as  God  wills,  I  say 
with  all  my  soul.  Often,  all  the  prayer  I  can  say  is, 
'  Thy  kingdom  come,  and  Thy  will  be  done ! '  The 
beginning  and  the  end  of  all  a  good  man  can  desire 
are  wrapped  up  in  that.  Yet  I  do  hope  the  time 
will  come  when  I  can  say  it  more  happily  than  now. 

"I  have  no  news  to  tell  you.  I  have  sent  for  'Dr. 
Hodge's  Memoir,'  and  look  for  a  grand  treat  in  lis- 
tening to  it.  Dr.  Duff's  'Life  and  Letters  '  has  been 
the  glory  of  the  summer  to  me  at  Mt.  Desert.  What 
a  magnificent  fellow  he  was !  And  what  a  splendid 
result  he  had  to  show  for  a  life's  work!  To  follow 
on  within  dim  sight  of  such  men  is  a  great  inspira- 
tion. I  am  not  sure  of  very  much  in  the  way  of  self- 
knowledge;  but  one  thing  I  do  know  —  that  I  thank 
God  for  the  great  men  in  the  kingdom;  those  whom 
He  calls  great,  and  honors  as  such  in  the  leadership 
of  the  Church.  My  whole  soul  springs  at  their  call. 
I  rejoice  to  believe  that  probably  the  Church  has  liv- 
ing, to-day,  greater  men  than  St.  Paul,  and  better 
men  than  David.     It  must  be  so." 

"  Andover,  Mass.,  November  30,  1880. 

"As  to  position  among  men, —  professional  repute, 
and  all  that  goes  with  that, —  I  think  I  can  honestly 
say,  that  for  a  long  stretch  of  years  I  have  been  so 
used  to  subordinating  the  name  of  a  thing  to  the 
doing  of  it,  that  I  am  never  painfully  sensible  of  loss 
in  seeing  the  name  grow  dim,  if  but  the  conscious- 
ness of  the  doing1  is  clear  and  luminous.     It  is  the 


LETTERS.  223 

loss  of  the  doing  that  troubles  me;  not  that  men 
think  less  of  me,  but  that  I  can  no  longer  do  any- 
thing that  can  give  a  reason  why  they  should  not.  I 
am  not  exactly  in  the  mood  —  but  in  some  distant 
approach  to  it  —  of  the  man  who  complained  of  the 
treatment  he  received  in  the  court-room  in  which  he 
had  appeared  as  a  witness:  'They  charged  me  with 
lying,  and  they —  proved  it.'  So  I  sink  out  of  sight, 
and  the  trouble  is  that  I  am  doing  nothing  that 
ought  to  keep  me  in  remembrance.  If  I  could  still 
have  the  doing,  though  underground,  seen  only  by 
the  Eye  that  seeth  in  secret,  I  think  I  should  be  con- 
tent. But  who  knows  ?  Perhaps  not.  Yet  so  it 
seems  to  me  now.  These  'Emeriti '  men  seem  to  me 
distinguished  mainly  as  men  who  have  ceased  to  do. 
The  world  pays  them  the  good-natured  compliment, 
but  other  men  wink  at  each  other  and  say,  'We  get 
on  very  well  without  them.'  The  very  mark  of 
honor  to  them  is  the  sign  of  the  loss  of  that  com- 
pared with  which  the  honor  is  as  a  tuft  of  thistle- 
down. 

"  By  the  way,  speaking  of  the  honor  paid  to  good 
men,  is  it  not  time  to  plead  for  a  reform  in  the  writ- 
ing of  biographies  ?  Do  you  ever  see  one  that  seems 
to  your  sober  sense  strictly  true  ?  They  are  my  favor- 
ite reading,  yet  I  am  amazed  at  their  exaggerations. 
And  those  of  good  men,  and  written  by  good  men,  are 
among  the  most  brilliantly  fictitious.     The  last  is  the 

Memoir  of  Dr. .     A  good  man,  a  useful  man,  a 

great  man  if  you  will,  but  the  image  which  the  biog- 
rapher adores  cannot  be  the  honest  likeness  of  any 
mortal  man.  Yet  such  is  the  general  strain  of  the 
biographies  I  read.     They  remind  me  of  Horace  Wal- 


224  AUSTIN  PHELPS. 

pole's  fling  at  history:  'Read  me  anything  but  his- 
tory, for  that  I  know  to  be  untrue.'  Taking  this 
one,  for  example,  there  are  lines  between  the  lines, 
which  one  who  has  known  much  of  public  men  can- 
not help  seeing,  and  which  indicate  that  he  could  not 
have  been  the  saint  he  seemed  to  be  to  his  reverent 
son.  An  old  man  riding  nine  miles  in  his  feeble- 
ness, to  cast  his  solitary  vote  against  the  reunion  of 
a  sundered  church!  That  showed  honesty,  pluck, 
the  dead-set  purpose  of  a  man  not  used  to  being  over- 
ruled, but  the  clear  vision  and  loving  heart  of  a  man 
living  in  the  upper  atmosphere  of  God's  presence  it 
does  not  show.  Biography  is  not  true  which  lifts 
him  up  to  that  plane." 

"Bar  Harbor,  Me.,  September  27,  1881. 

"  I  have  been  reading  novels  lately  as  a  sedative. 
I  am  amazed  at  the  amount  of  mental  force  which  is 
in  our  days  expended  in  the  department  of  fiction.  It 
is  not  only  one  department,  but  is  fast  becoming  the 
department,  overshadowing  all  the  rest.  If  you  are 
interested  in  pictures  of  old  Egyptian  life,  you  will 
be  entertained,  and  profited  too,  by  two  or  three  of 
George  Eber's  recent  stories.  He  is  one  of  the  most 
learned  Egyptologists  of  the  age,  and  his  imagination 
is  of  no  mean  order.  I  have  obtained  a  good  deal 
of  knowledge  from  his  books. 

"  Of  more  solid  literature,  Professor 's  book  for 

which  the  Scotchmen  have  rapped  his  knuckles,  and 
Dr.  Smyth's  two  books,  are  about  all  that  I  have  seen 
since  I  came  here.  This  is  not  a  place  of  books,  but 
of  mackerel. 

"  What  a  magnificent  disclosure  is  made  of  a  great 


LETTERS.  225 

nation's  heart  in  these  last  few  days!  It  lifts  one's 
conception  of  human  nature.  It  is  an  interesting- 
psychological  problem, — what  proportion  of  sorrow 
for  the  great  President's  departure  is  genuine  ?  How 
much  does  it  measure  of  real  heart  ?  Am  I  wrong  in 
the  feeling  that  it  represents  more  of  the  best  ele- 
ments of  a  nation's  character  than  we  have  ever  wit- 
nessed before?  more  even  than  the  response  to  the 
loss  of  President  Lincoln  ?  If  I  am  right,  it  certainly 
is  a  sign  of  the  world's  progress  in  things  pure  and 
lofty  and  loving. 

"I  remember  hearing  one  of  Professor  B.  B.  Ed- 
ward's inimitable  sermons,  on  the  'Evidences  of  Hu- 
man Progress, '  the  first  of  which,  as  I  recall  it,  was 
'The  Birth  of  the  Greek  Idea  of  Beauty.'  It  is  upon 
that  plane  of  thinking  that  I  am  inclined  to  place 
a  development  of  the  national  being  such  as  we  are 
now  witnessing.  It  is  more  than  thought:  it  is  soul. 
It  may,  to  appearance,  be  short-lived.  But  all  great 
emotions  are  that.  It  is  none  the  less  a  great  and 
good  thing  to  have  lived  through  it.  A  nation's 
secret  life  cannot  but  be  elevated  and  purified  by 
it." 

[Not  dated.    Received  in  1884  or  1885.] 

"Andover,  Mass. 

"  You  are  a  born  correspondent,  as  I  am  not.  You 
keep  letters,  as  I  do  not.  You  write  for  the  pleas- 
ure or  comfort  of  it;  I  commonly  from  necessity. 
What  a  volume  of  interest  your  correspondence  with 
Dr.  Hopkins  would  be  to  those  who  come  after  you ! 
I,  alas,  have  no  such  record  of  the  industry  of  my  pen ! 
I  sometimes  wish  I  had.  Yet  very  early  in  life, 
when  I  did  keep  letters  and  had  copies  of  my  own,  I 


226  AUSTIN  PHELPS. 

was  one  day  overwhelmed,  on  looking  them  over,  by 
the  discovery  that  even  in  a  few  years  I  had  outgrown 
them  and  was  ashamed  that  I  had  ever  written  so. 
Then  there  was  a  bonfire  which  almost  set  my  chim- 
ney on  fire.  And  that  I  might  not  live  in  the  bond- 
age which  I  know  some  good  men  are  under,  of  the 
fear  of  writing  what  I  should  be  sorry  for,  I  fell  into 
the  way  of  men  of  business  who  write  what  must  be 
written,  and  there  stop.  I  resolved  that  so  far  as  I 
did  write,  I  would  write  fearlessly  as  I  would  talk, 
but  I  would  not  write  much.  Hence  arose  my  seem- 
ingly negligent  ways.  You  are  almost  the  only  man 
to  whom  I  write  letters  such  as  Wordsworth  would 
have  classified  as  'letters  of  sentiment  and  affection.' 
But  yours  to  me  are  always  welcome,  I  need  not  say. 

"  Bar  Harbor,  Me.,  September  6,  1885. 

"My  friend  Bishop  Coxe  has  called  my  attention 
to  your  letter  on  Christian  Catholicity.  I  did  not 
see  the  letter  when  it  first  appeared.  But  I  have  sent 
for  a  copy  and  have  read  it  with  great  interest.  It 
cannot  fail  to  do  good. 

"  Your  kindly  mention  of  my  articles  on  the  Epis- 
copal Church  gratifies  me  exceedingly;  and  all  the 
more  because  I  know  your  staunch  fidelity  to  the  faith 
and  polity  of  our  fathers.  It  is  encouraging  to  see 
the  softening  of  ancient  prejudices  which  have  alien- 
ated brethren  of  different  proclivities.  I  have  been 
greeted  with  great  cordiality  by  the  Episcopal  Cler- 
gymen who  congregate  here  in  the  summer.  There 
is  an  Episcopal  temperament,  and  a  Methodist  tem- 
perament, and  a  Calvinistic  temperament,  from  which 
sects  grow  by  natural  evolution.     At  the  core  of  char- 


LETTERS.  227 

acter,  they  mean  little  more  than  red  hair  or  a  birth- 
mark. The  Master  will  know  His  own  only  by  the 
name  in  the  forehead. 

"  It  gladdens  me  to  hear  of  your  improving  strength. 
The  years  seem  to  count  slowly  with  you.  Do  you 
not  think  that  often  the  work  which  a  man  does  in 
his  closing  years  of  life  has  a  spiritual  vitality  in  it 
which  that  of  his  busier  manhood  had  not  ?  Lookers- 
on  may  not  estimate  it  so,  but  perhaps  the  'witness 
of  the  Spirit'  does.  I  prize  every  hour  of  mellow 
thought  and  restful  prayer  which  I  sometimes  have 
given  to  me.  I  hope  I  am  not  mistaken.  It  seems 
to  me  that  I  recognize  the  evidences  of  such  more 
abundantly  in  the  closing  labors  of  other  men.  A 
suggestion  here ;  an  aspiration  there ;  a  bit  of  poetry, 
rythmic  or  not,  now ;  and  a  prayer  then ;  seem  to  beto- 
ken a  ripening  soul,  even  a  corruscation  of  intellect, 
struck  out  by  a  glowing  heart;  and  to  disclose  the 
fact  that  some  of  God's  best  uses  of  a  man  may  come 
after  he  has  begun  to  feel  most  useless  himself.  I 
bungle  in  saying  what  I  mean.  But  I  obtained  one 
such  look  into  the  soul  of  a  preacher  here  a  week  ago, 
and  I  lived  upon  it  for  many  days." 

"  Bar  Harbor,  Me.,  October  13,  1885. 

"  I  have  been  much  impressed  recently  by  a  more 
vivid  idea  than  I  had  before,  of  the  value  of  prayer  as 
a  means  of  usefulness  to  men  whose  life's  work,  like 
yours  and  mine,  is  mainly  finished.  This  oppressive 
sense  of  useless  living  is  relieved  by  it.  My  pupils 
at  Andover,  some  hundreds  of  whom  are  in  the  thick 
of  their  labors,  are  a  very  precious  object  of  prayer  to 
me.     They  are  beginning  to  celebrate  the   twenty- 


228  AUSTIN   PHELPS. 

fifth  anniversary  of  their  settlement  or  ordination,  and 
they  are  kind  enough  to  write  and  tell  me  of  it,  and 
to  recall  Andover  gratefully.  I  live  again  in  their 
life.  If  I  could  but  feel  more  sure  that  my  prayer 
can  help  them,  I  should  feel  grateful  for  that  way  of 
continuing  the  old  service  of  my  life. 

"  It  cheers  me  to  think  of  God's  interest  in  little 
things.  We  do  not  need  to  move  a  world  to  please 
Him.  A  gentle  thought  lodged  in  a  child's  mind 
will  do  it  as  well.  So  a  momentary  aspiration  upward 
in  ejaculatory  prayer,  for  a  Pastor  in  his  work,  may 
achieve  more  than  we  think.  Is  there  any  better  way 
of  winding  up  the  labors  of  a  lifetime,  than  to  set 
some  little  rills  of  intercession  running  in  behalf  of 
good  men  ?  May  they  not  experience  some  hours  or 
moments  of  refreshing,  when  they  need  it  most,  but 
do  not  know  the  source  from  which  it  comes,  and 
least  of  all,  the  hand  that  unsealed  the  fountain  ? 

"Your  suggestions  respecting  the  needless  isola- 
tion of  Christians  from  each  other,  are  very  true. 
What  with  dulness  of  temperament,  reticence  of 
habit,  the  fear  of  orhciousness,  and  what  Charles 
Lamb  calls  'imperfect  sympathies, '  we  are  apt  to  mope 
or  stammer  our  way  through  a  Christian  experience 
which  would  be  larger  if  it  were  freer. 

"Is  it  not  true,  also,  that  we  are,  many  of  us, 
checked  in  our  Christian  speech,  by  the  consciousness 
of  a  gulf  between  our  words  and  our  experience  ?  Or, 
if  that  states  the  case  too  strongly,  by  the  conscious- 
ness that  our  real  life  in  Christ  is  fitful,  and,  there- 
fore, that  our  best  words  are  only  occasionally  true 
to  the  facts  ?  I  confess  to  a  humiliating  sense  of  this, 
Avhich  often  suppresses  words  at  my  tongue's  end. 


LETTERS.  229 

Some  things  which  I  have  published  even  humble 
me  whenever  I  think  of  them.  They  seem  to  me  to 
express  a  very  exalted  and  holy  ideal,  but  often  it 
seems  as  if  nobody  else  could  be  so  much  a  stranger 
to  them  as  I  am.  Laudatory  criticisms  of  them, 
implying  that  they  spoke  the  author's  experience, 
have  shut  my  lips  tight.  One  good  lay-brother 
positively  relieved  me  once,  by  saying  to  me  of  'The 
Still  Hour,'  'You  must  be  a  very  good  man,  or  you 
must  have  been  a  very  wicked  one. '  He,  at  all  events, 
gave  me  leeway  for  finding  a  spot  where  I  could  feel 
honest. 

"  Does  not  this  kind  of  painful  consciousness  keep 
us  still,  often,  when  we  ought  to  trust  men  more 
largely  to  bear  with  our  infirmities,  and  trust  God 
more  deeply  to  control  them?  Robertson  speaks  in 
one  of  his  letters  of  the  'fatal  facility'  of  religious 
speech,  in  a  way  which  shows  that  he  suffered  from 
the  cause  here  named.  I  imagine  that  it  drives  a 
great  many  good  men  into  reticent  habits,  and  as  they 
grow  older,  into  a  moral  seclusion. 

"When  I  am  shut  in  by  such  thoughts,  I  love  to 
think  of  David  and  Peter  —  very  imperfect  men  they: 
but  how  grateful  we  all  are  to  them  for  their  grand 
thoughts  and  grander  aspirations,  and  how  much  we 
should  have  lost  if  they  had  concealed  them !  Why 
cannot  the  Christian  brotherhood  have  a  sort  of  tacit 
compact  among  themselves ;  that  they  may  all  feel 
free  to  speak  the  best  they  know,  and  we  will  not 
rebuke  them,  even  in  our  hearts,  for  speaking  better 
than  they  are  ?  One  is  ambitious  —  one  is  vain  —  one 
is  avaricious  —  one  is  lazy  —  and  so  on  —  miserabiles 
nos ;  —  but,  'brother,  if  God  gives  you  a  thought  or  a 


230  AUSTIN  PHELPS. 

desire  above  the  level  of  your  life,  out  with  it;  let 
us  all  have  the  benefit  of  it;  and  we  will  not  think 
you  a  hypocrite,  if  you  do  not  succeed  in  living  it. ' 
We  are  all  patients  in  one  great  hospital.  Sometimes 
we  are  constrained  to  retire,  and  call  the  Physician 
that  we  may  see  him  alone  and  at  midnight.  But 
why  should  we  not  all  come  out  together,  in  the  days 
of  convalescence,  when  the  sun  shines,  and  sit  in  the 
corridor  or  the  great  hall,  and  tell  each  other  'how 
well  we  are  to-day'  —  'how  hopeful;  how  sure  of 
health  by  and  by'  —  each  making  the  best  of  his  case, 
for  the  good  cheer  of  the  rest  ?  That  man  was  a  hero, 
and  more,  who  struck  up  'When  I  can  read  my  title 
clear,'  on  the  field  of  Shiloh  after  the  battle.  Proba- 
bly he  may  not  have  felt  like  singing  when  he  began. 
Perhaps  he  would  rather  have  buried  his  face  and 
groaned.  But  he  had  his  reward,  when  he  had  set 
hundreds  mere  to  singing:  and  that  'Psalm  of  Life' 
rolled  over  the  whole  field." 

To  Rev.  H.  J.  Patrick. 

"Bar  Harbor,  Me.,  September  25,  1885. 

"  I  am  glad  to  tell  you  in  this  fraternal  way,  how 
cordially  I  rejoice  with  you.  You  are  one  of  the 
chosen  ones,  honored  by  prolonged  service,  in  an 
office  which,  as  I  believe,  has  no  superior  in  Christ's 
Church.  I  wonder  if  you  appreciate  it  as  seems  to 
me !  I  used  to  think  with  trembling,  of  its  respon- 
sibilities and  its  perils.  Now  I  revere  it  for  its  oppor- 
tunities. A  halo  surrounds  it  like  that  of  the  old 
paintings  of  the  Virgin  Mother  in  Italy.  Some  of 
those  Madonnas  were  the  fruit  of  days  and  nights  of 
prayer.      They  were  painted  by  men  who  worshipped 


LETTERS.  231 

her.  It  is  with  a  feeling  akin  to  worship  that  I  look 
upon  a  Christian  pulpit.  Every  one  is  a  Mount  of 
Transfiguration  to  my  vision. 

"  I  remember  hearing  of  an  incident  related  of  the 

preaching  of  Dr.  ,  some  thirty  odd   years   ago. 

He  had  a  profound  sense  of  the  person  of  Christ,  such 
as  few  men  whom  I  have  known  have  experienced. 
On  one  occasion,  in  the  midst  of  a  sermon,  he  paused, 
grew  pale,  trembled,  as  if  in  a  trance.  Said  he  sub- 
stantially,—  I  do  not  give  his  words, —  'I  do  not  know 
what  it  means,  but  I  seem  to  feel  the  presence  of 
some  heavenly  Being.  Is  it  possible  that  Christ  is 
here  —  here  in  this  house  —  here  where  I  stand  —  as 
if  He  would  preach  to  you ?  Let  us  pray!'  The  ser- 
mon, I  think,  had  no  other  ending.  So  I  love  to 
think  of  all  pulpits  filled  by  those  whom  it  has  been 
my  privilege  to  commune  with  at  Andover.  I  seem 
to  see  Our  Lord  standing  by  their  side  and  fulfilling 
His  promise.  'It  shall  be  given  you,  what  ye  shall 
say. '  I  do  believe  it,  my  dear  Brother,  with  all  my 
soul!  You  never  speak  a  truth  for  Him  or  utter  a 
prayer  in  your  pulpit  which  He  has  not  put  into  your 
mind  to  say,  so  far  as  it  is  a  genuine  offering  of 
service  for  His  sake.  You  have  a  premonition  every 
Sabbath  of  the  coronation  which  awaits  you  by  and  by ! 

"It  is  a  grand  calling,  is  it  not?  But  you  know 
all  this  —  I  am  preaching  to  one  who  does  not  need 
it.  But  your  letter  has  unsealed  the  fountain  of  my 
feelings  about  your  work,  which  I  do  not  often  have 
a  chance  to  express. 

"  May  God  bless  you  for  another  silver  age,  as  he 
has  done  in  the  one  just  closing!  I  can  ask  for  you 
no  higher  joy." 


232  AUSTIN  PHELPS. 

"  Bar  Harbor,  October  8,  1886. 

"  I  am  glad  to  know  that  some  of  my  young  breth- 
ren —  for  you  all  seem  young  to  me  —  are  cheered  by 
any  words  of  mine.  I  am  living  a  very  useless  life. 
To  put  one  ringing  cheer  into  the  ear  of  one  brother 
who  is  down  on  the  plain  in  the  dust  and  heat  of  the 
battle,  seems  to  me  a  thing  to  be  grateful  for.  I 
thank  you,  too,  for  telling  me  of  it." 

To  a   College   Student   seeking   Advice  in  a 
Period  of  Scepticism. 

'•  Axdover,  Mass.,  June  3,  1879. 

"  I  am  sick  ;  I  write  in  my  bed.  I  cannot  say  what 
I  wish  to.  Your  letter  commands  my  deepest  sym- 
pathy. I  think  I  know  your  trouble.  I  have  been 
through  it  all.  But  the  most  that  I  am  able  to  write 
now,  and  probably  for  some  time  to  come,  is  this, 
please  to  read  the  Memoir  of  Rev.  Dr.  Norman  McLeod 
and  the  Rev.  Dr.  Thos.  Guthrie  of  Scotland ;  and  then 
please  read  Porter's  '  Life  of  Aaron  Burr.'  The  object 
is  to  help  you  to  realize  Christian  faith  as  a  fact  in 
one  life  :  and  the  want  of  it  in  another.  The  contrast 
may  help  you,  —  I  do  not  know.  God  can  make  it 
helpful. 

"  To  me  the  contrast  of  Burr's  character  with  almost 
any  humble  Christian  of  the  faith  which  Burr  aban- 
doned, was  overwhelming. 

"  When  I  closed  the  last  volume  I  felt  as  if  I  had 
been  looking  into  hell,  and  my  soul  rebounded  with 
gratitude  that  there  is  a  God  and  a  Heaven,  and  char- 
acter fitted  to  it. 

May  God  help  you,  as  I  cannot !  " 


LETTERS.  233 

To  a  Pastor  who  wrote  him  asking,  "What 
Thought  brings  you  most  Consolation  in 
Old  Age?" 

[Undated,  but  known  to  be  written  in  the  spring  of  1890.] 

"  You  doubtless  are  familiar  with  the  incident  re- 
lated of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  that,  when  on  his  death- 
bed, his  son-in-law,  Mr.  Lockhart,  proposed  to  read  to 
him,  and  asked  what  book  he  would  prefer  to  hear ; 
he  replied  in  substance  :  '  How  can  you  ask  ?  There 
is  but  one  for  me  now.' 

"  So  in  response  to  your  inquiry  I  must  say :  There 
is  but  one  thought  which  leads  all  other  sources  of '  con- 
solation,' as  you  call  it,  to  a  man  who  has  just  passed 
his  seventieth  birthday,  as  I  have.  I  call  it  rather  a 
source  of  youthful  hope  and  supreme  assurance.  I 
do  not  yet  feel  the  need  of  consolation  under  old  age 
as  an  affliction.  That  thought  of  regal  strength  is 
the  reality  of  Christ  as  One  ever  living  to  save,  and 
as  a  Personal  Friend  to  comfort  and  to  cheer.  The 
one  thought  which  oppresses  me  with  most  profound 
regret,  when  I  recall  my  brief  ministry  of  six  years  in 
Boston,  is  that  I  gave  to  my  people  so  little  of  Christ, 
oh,  so  little  of  Christ!  And  now  the  chief  joy  I  have 
in  my  penitent  reminiscences  is  that  He  returns  me 
good  for  evil  by  a  sense  of  His  personal  friendship ! 

"  I  think  I  may  truthfully  say  —  for  why  should  I 
not  take  Him  at  His  word?  —  that  He  is  never  absent 
when  I  seek  His  presence !  What  can  I  ask  for 
more  ?  " 

To  Rev.  Samuel  W.  Dike. 

"  Andover,  September  17,  1877. 
"  My  own  feeling  is  that  the  men  who  are  to  give 
the  Church,  and  through  that  the  world,  the  right  in- 


234  AUSTIN  PHELPS. 

struction  on  this  theme,  are  now  young  men.  My 
observation  is,  that  God  gives  to  young  men  usually 
early  in  their  public  life,  the  great  reformatory  ideas 
which  are  needed  for  their  generation,  if  they  are  the 
men  chosen  to  great  reformatory  work.  I  welcome, 
therefore,  all  such  work  which  seems  to  come  from 
youthful  thinkers  with  the  air  of  a  revelation  which 
they  ?nust  deliver.  The  new  minds  must  originate 
the  new  truths." 

To  Mrs.  S.  S.  Robbins. 

"  I  think  my  sympathy  grows,  as  time  carries  me 
on,  with  the  beginnings  of  young  men.  I  never 
could  face  mine  again  with  the  courage  I  had  when 
it  came. 

"  My  doctors  all  forbid  my  working,  but  I  cannot 
see  it  as  they  do ;  anything  is  better  for  me  than  what 
people  call  rest.  There  is  no  rest  in  it  —  it  compels 
me  to  read  the  Psalms  half  the  time  to  keep  my  soul 
in  patience." 

"Andover,  Mass.,  February  19,  1865. 

"  I  am  reading  Lady  Blessington's  '  Conversations 
with  Lord  Byron.'  Have  you  ever  seen  it  ?  A  very 
readable  book,  rambling  and  diffuse,  but  it  softens 
one's  sense  of  the  wickedness  of  the  man,  at  the 
expense  of  one's  respect  for  his  intellect.  I  '  guess ' 
he  inherited  all  the  '  devil '  there  was  in  him." 

"  Andover,  Mass.,  March  25,  1872. 

"  If  I  had  not  lived  ten  years  with  the  feeling  of 
Death  in  me  most  of  the  time,  I  should  say  now  that 
I  have  no  chance  for  another  year.  But  life  is  the 
most  obstinate  thiner  alive." 


LETTERS.  235 

"June  10,  1S7G. 
"Your  life  has  been  given  in  piecemeal  to  other 
people.  You  will  find  it  so  by  and  by.  It  will  come 
to  you  as  a  discovery.  'When  saw  we  Thee  sick 
and  visited  Thee  ? '  '  Inasmuch  as  to  one  of  the 
least  of  these.'  That  tells  your  story.  Do  try  to 
get  some  comfort  from  the  assurance  now.  To  me 
the  clay  of  judgment  seems  more  valuable  for  its 
righting  the  self  accusations  of  good  people,  than  for 
its  condemnation  of  the  wicked.  I  am  glad  there 
is  to  be  one.  These  awful  tribunals  of  Conscience 
need  an  illuminating  from  infinite  Love,  and  they 
are  sure  to  get  it." 

To  his  Wife  (before  marriage). 

"Andover,  December  1,  [undated.] 
"  I  passed  through  Boston  this  afternoon  and  down 
the  Charles  Street  Mall  at  sunset.  A  more  mellow 
and  benevolent  sunset  I  never  witnessed,  even  in  Italy. 
...  Is  there  another  spot  on  earth  like  Boston 
Common?  ...  I  am  to  preach  to-morrow  at  the 
ordination  of  a  young  man  who  comes  back  to  suc- 
ceed his  father  in  the  ministry  in  his  own  birthplace. 
It  seems  to  me  as  if  I  should  enjoy  the  retirement  of 
just  such  a  settlement  in  the  pastoral  office  —  I  get 
so  weary  of  incessant  excess  of  responsibility.  But  I 
fear  that  ...  if  I  were  once  thrust  into  such  a  place 
I  should  be  as  ambitious  and  restless  as  Csesar.  I  do 
hope  I  may  live  to  see  the  day  when  I  can  preach  a 
sermon  without  a  consciously  selfish  thought." 

"  Andover,  January  6,  1858. 
"  It  seems  to  me  I  have  been  working  like  a  shuttle 
ever  since  I  saw  you,  and  I  am  tired  of  it.  .  .  .     I 


236  AUSTIN   PHELPS. 

went  to  my  tea  table  to-night  after  having  read  aloud 
and  talked,  almost  without  cessation,  for  ten  hours. 
I  was  exhausted  and  faint,  and  felt  as  if  I  wanted  to 
lie  down  on  the  floor  and  think  a  while  of  my  mother, 
who  used  always  to  observe  my  birthday  as  a  day  of 
fasting  and  prayer  for  me." 

"...  I  am  naturally  less  buoyant  than  you  are, 
and,  under  any  circumstances,  should  have  a  less  ex- 
uberant flow  of  spirits.  There  are,  however,  pecu- 
liarities about  the  life  of  a  minister  (if  he  really 
makes  his  ministry  his  life,  and  not  an  appendage 
merely)  which  I  do  not  think  you  fully  understand 
in  their  workings  upon  such  a  mind  as  mine.  The 
effect  of  them  is  to  deepen  all  feeling  of  every  kind. 
I  cannot  explain  it  to  you  with  the  pen.  I  only 
know  that  life  has  an  intensity  of  reality  to  me,  which 
often  makes  it  impossible  for  me  to  be  otherwise  than 
deeply,  intensely,  earnestly  happy,  and  for  that  reason 

quietly  happy." 

"  Andover  [undated]. 

"  Here  are  Dr.  Mason  and  Professor  Park  in  my 
study  six  hours  a  day,  and  this  must  continue  for 
several  weeks  to  come.  ...  I  had  an  interesting  day 
in  Dover  —  good  and  solemn  audiences.  I  preached 
the  Law  sermon  by  request,  and  I  think  never  before 
preached  it  with  so  obvious  an  effect  upon  the  au- 
dience —  a  really  solemn  impression.  I  had  some 
scruples  about  preaching  it,  for  I  have  once  or  twice 
thought  its  effect  was  rather  intellectual  than  reli- 
gious. .  .  .  But  I  think  I  cannot  be  mistaken  that  it 
was  the  earnest  conscience  of  my  audience  which 
responded.  ...  I  left  them  with  a  feeling  of  relief, 
for  I  do  dread  this  preaching  which  does  nothing  but 


LETTERS.  237 

make  an  audience  gaze  in  wonder  at  the  preacher. 
I  have  sometimes  felt  like  hiding  my  face  in  shame 
when  I  heard  the  commendations  of  my  auditors. 
Oh,  it  is  not  that  which  a  preacher  needs  to  give  him 
joy  in  his  work  ! 

"Perhaps  I  am  wronging  my  feelings  —  I  fear  that 
I  am  a  little  selfish ;  but  I  do  have  a  very  strong 
desire  to  have  now  a  period  of  happy,  buoyant,  and 
loving  life  ...  it  seems  as  if  I  needed  it  to  develop 
all  that  is  in  me.  It  is  not  best  that  a  man's  life 
should  be  all  a  struggle." 

"  Andover,  March  20,  1858. 

"  I  am  more  than  ever  sensible  of  the  uselessness 
of  a  mere  enjoyment  —  or  suffering,  as  the  case  may 
be  —  of  religious  sensibility,  if  it  does  not  add  some- 
thing permanent  to  our  characters.  It  seems  to  me 
that  even  this  warm  glow  of  Christian  sympathy  which 
is  now  suffusing  so  many  hearts,  may  be  debilitating  in 
its  effects  if  God's  spirit  does  not  employ  it  to  deepen 
Christian  experience  and  consolidate  Christian  prin- 
ciple. ...  I  was  rather  painfully  sensible,  at  our 
meetings  here  last  evening,  that  this  luxuiy  of  feel- 
ing and  talking  does  not  amount  to  much  after  all, 
unless  it  is  the  index  of  a  real  and  growing  vigor  of 
resolution  in  God's  service.  I  wanted  to  say  to  all 
these  young  men  that  they  should  go  home  to  their 
closets  and  seek  a  holier  and  more  calm  and  more 
childlike  intercourse  with  God  there. 

"  I  find  it  costs  me  a  struggle  to  be  willing  to  be 
thought  by  others  just  what  I  am.  The  judgment  of 
my  friends  is  more  important  to  me  than  it  ought  to 
be.  .  .  .     I  wish  I  could  be  more  self-possessed,  and 


238  AUSTIN   PHELPS. 

content  to  be  just  what  God  has  made  me.  It  is 
humiliating  to  think  of  feeling  otherwise.  I  do  not 
mean  to  if  I  can  help  it." 

"Andover,  April  16  [probably  1858]. 
"  Dr.  Mason  arrived  this  evening,  and  we  are  to 
have  some  further  consultations  upon  our  work.  .  .  . 
I  dislike  the  drudgery  of  the  printing,  though,  pro- 
digiously. It  really  gives  me  a  new  sense  of  the 
clumsiness  of  this  whole  method  of  communicating 
thought  by  speech,  and  writing,  and  printing.  Don't 
you  suppose  that  they  have  more  simple  and  direct 
methods  of  intercourse  in  Heaven  ?  I  do.  .  .  .  Per- 
haps it  is  by  some  language  like  the  language  of  the 
eyes  here.  Perhaps  spiritual  being,  in  its  nature,  is 
transparent  to  all  beholders.  Perhaps  the  celestial 
body  has  a  physiognomy,  which  is  as  much  superior  to 
that  of  the  '  human  face  divine,'  as  respects  its  quick- 
ness and  truthfulness  of  expression,  as  it  is  superior 
in  point  of  immortality.  What  a  paltry  affair  the  in- 
vention of  the  art  of  printing  must  seem  to  be  to  angelic 
minds,  less  wonderful,  perhaps,  than  a  beaver  dam  or  a 
honeycomb  seems  to  us.  Such  are  some  of  the  lucu- 
brations started  in  my  mind  by  the  blurred  proof-sheets 
I  had  to  correct,  and  by  my  having  to  spend  two 
hours  first  to  convince  myself,  and  then  to  convince 
others,  of  what  is  the  real  difference  between  '  O '  and 
'  Oh.'  " 

(After  Marriage.) 

"Amherst,  August  9th. 
"  I  am  lonely  in  the  midst  of  crowds.    I  do  not  know 
that  it  is  best  for  me  to  cherish  so  much  as  I  have  of 
a  feeling  of  dependence  on  the  endearments  of  my 


LETTERS.  239 

home.  It  prevents  my  throwing  myself  as  heartily  as 
I  want  to  into  the  thoughts  and  sympathies  of  others 
beside  my  own  dear  group.  .  .  .  Last  evening  I  at- 
tended the  Prize  Declamations  as  one  of  the  Commit- 
tee for  the  awarding  of  prizes  and  I  was  out-voted 
in  every  case  !  The  speaking  was  good;  but  I  would 
have  given  the  prizes  to  the  more  quiet  and  manly 
speakers.  The  majority  preferred  the  more  noisy  and 
dramatic  ones." 

"  Amherst,  August  10,  1858. 

"My  address  is  delivered,  and  I  am  relieved, — 
perhaps  as  much  as  my  audience  are.  I  have  no 
means  of  knowing  what  reception  it  met  with,  ex- 
cept that  I  had  good  attention,  and  one  man,  a  young 
clergyman,  came  to  me  afterwards  and  simply  said 
to  me,  with  a  hearty  grasp  of  his  hand  and  a  manly 
effort  to  repress  the  tears  that  were  swelling  in  his 
eyes,  '  You  have  done  me  good  —  I  shall  not  for- 
get it.'  That  is  enough.  I  do  not  care  now  whether 
the  rest  liked  it  or  not." 

"Andover,  September  3,  1862. 
"  The  news  to-day  is  a  little  blue  ;  but  I  trust  I  grow 
more  calm  about  it  as  the  peril  deepens.  I  do  not  know 
that  my  feeling  is  a  Christian  trust,  but  it  seems  to 
me  so  evident  that  God  is  working  for  moral  ends, 
that  I  am  willing  to  see  other  interests  sacrificed  to 
them  if  it  seems  necessary  to  Him.  I  do  not  think 
that  the  loss  of  Washington  would  shake  my  faith 
now  in  the  ultimate  result." 

"Andover,  September  5,  1862. 
"  I  am  sorry  you  are  blue  about  the  war.     I  have 
a  great  deal  more  faith  now  than   I  had  when  we 


240  AUSTIN   PHELPS. 

seemed  to  be  victorious,  but  with  a  proportionate 
victory  of  the  old  conservative  feeling  which  would 
put  us  back  to  where  we  were  before  the  war  began. 
I  think  we  were  in  an  awfully  degraded  state  two 
years  ago,  and  I  do  not  believe  that  God  means  to 
permit  us  to  go  back  to  it.  My  only  doubt  is  whether 
the  nation  has  principle  enough  to  bear  the  necessary 
conquest  of  the  South,  and  whether  God  may  not, 
therefore,  permit  a  temporary  division.  But  that, 
either  by  present  conquest  or  as  the  result  of  divis- 
ion, we  shall  be  one  people,  twenty  years  hence,  I 
have  not  a  shadow  of  doubt.  My  hopes  are  strong 
that  we  shall  succeed  in  the  war,  —  but  if  not,  let  the 
division  come,  with  all  its  consequences.  Suffering 
may  do  what  victory  cannot. 

"  Anything  is  better  than  to  go  back  where  we 
were,  when  prosperity  was  accumulating  and  prin- 
ciple was  nothing.  I  should  have  still  more  hope  if 
the  wealth  of  the  country  were  cut  down  one-half." 

"  Washington,  April  13,  1862. 

"  To-day  we  were  too  weary  to  go  to  church  more 

than  once.      We  attended  at  Dr. 's  church  this 

morning,  where  we  found  a  large  audience,  a  tame, 

rigid,    old-school   sermon  —  and    President    Lincoln. 

I  was  more  interested  in  the  President  than  in  the 

preacher,  and  I  was  sorry  to  have  him  listen  to  such 

an  exhibition  of  evangelical  religion.     He  looked  as 

if  his  good  sense  were  saying  all  the  time,  '  I  can't 

go  that  doctrine.'    I  think  he  is  the  homeliest  man 

I  ever  saw." 

"Geneva,  April  19. 

"...  I  write,  talk,  and  think  as  little  as  possible 

about  Mr.  Lincoln,  —  to  save  my  brain.     It  is  shock- 


LETTERS.  241 

ing  beyond  expression  ;  yet  I  have  strange  joy  in  it 
after  all,  somewhat  as  I  have  in  the  Crucifixion : 
it  proves  that  God  is  so  near  to  us  as  a  nation.  Such 
crises  indicate  His  determination  to  save  us.  I  feel 
as  if  the  millennium  were  a  hundred  years  nearer 
than  it  seemed  a  week  ago." 

"Andover,  July  28,  18G5. 

"  We  had  a  Church  meeting  yesterday,  for  organ- 
izing anew.  They  have  requested  me  to  prepare  a 
Creed  and  Covenant  for  them.  If  it  should  be  my 
last  work  for  Andover  Seminary,  it  will  be  a  pleasant 
duty  to  remember,  —  i.e.  if  they  are  liberal  enough 
to  adopt  it.  I  shall  give  them  none  of  the  '  antique.' 
It  they  need  to  be  governed  by  dead  men  they  must 
get  some  other  exorcist  than  I  to  call  them  from 
their  graves." 

"  Andover,  September  13,  1867. 

"  It  awakens  some  painful  regrets  in  me,  to  think 
that  my  pulpit  labors  may  be  over.  I  should  be  glad 
to  have  another  period  of  such  work,  to  correct 
some  mistakes  in  the  past,  if  no  more.  I  think  I 
envy  no  man  anything  but  youth  and  strength  for 
a  life's  work  —  it  seems  to  me  so  useless,  and  but  for 
the  compulsion  of  disease  so  unworthy,  to  live  as  I  do." 

Of  Dr.  Taylor  of  New  Haven. 

"Andover  [undated]. 
"  He  was  a  noble  heart,  and  a  real  father  to  me. 
He  lived  and  died  a  poor  man  .  .  .  and  yet  I  do  not 
know  that  he  had  a  superior  in  the  land,  as  a  man 
of  mind  and  character ;  and  probably  two  thousand 
souls  trace  their  salvation  directly  to  his  labors.  That 
is  what  I  call  living.'" 


242  AUSTIN  PHELPS. 

"  Ripton,  September  14,  1874. 
"...  I  am  not  unhappy.  On  the  contrary,  I 
have  great  peace —  like  the  stillness  of  the  beautiful 
hills  on  which  the  summer  sun  lies  dreamily ;  and  so 
does  the  light  of  God's  love  beam  down  upon  my 
head.  '  Evening,  and  sunrise,  and  at  noon,  will  I 
pray '  comes  to  me  as  an  invitation  and  frequent 
committal  of  my  soul  and  body  to  God.  And  some- 
how I  cannot  help  feeling  that  I  have  his  promise  for 
the  preservation  of  both.     In  this  hope  I  am  waiting 

happily  and  trustfully.  ...     I  think  much  of 

and  his  first  long  absence  from  home.  My  love  goes 
roaming  over  the  world,  wherever  I  have  a  loved 
one  to  think  of." 

To  his  Son  Stuart. 

"  June  26,  1879. 

"  Yours  of  the  24th  received ;  I  cannot  write  at 
length,  but  I  hasten  to  express  to  you  my  entire 
approval  of  all  that  you  have  done  —  the  preliminary 
interviews  as  well  as  the  final  action.  In  no  one 
thing  would  I  have  had  you  act  differently.  You 
have  conducted  a  difficult  and  delicate  matter  to  a 
result  honorable  to  me  and  creditable  to  yourself.  I 
count  it  as  one  of  the  signal  blessings  for  which  I 
thank  God  in  this  emergency,  that  I  have  a  son  whose 
judgment  and  culture  have  enabled  him  to  act  for  me 
so  wisely. 

"  You  have  done  me  a  great  favor,  my  son ;  God 
bless  you  for  it ! 

"  I  am  glad  to  be  able  to  tell  you  that  after  the 
first  day  I  have  not  felt  disheartened  at  all.  I  find 
a  new  spring  of  hope  and  resolve  about  my  health 


LETTERS.  243 

rising  in  me.  I  am  determined  to  get  up  again.  I 
mean  to  preach  within  two  years.  I  have  no  idea 
of  throwing  ten  years  of  life  into  the  grave,  nor  of 
spending  it  waiting  in  my  shroud.  '  Now  is  life  less 
sweet  and  death  less  bitter ! '   was  the  exclamation 

of  when    the    acceptance    of    his    resignation 

was  announced  to  him.  I  don't  feel  a  bit  of  that. 
I  am  able  —  and  I  thank  God  for  it  —  to  look  upon 
the  future  with  strong  confidence  and  courage.  The 
process  will  be  slow,  but  I  believe  it  will  be  sure. 
The  last  two  nights  I  have  slept  sweetly ;  to-day, 
after  a  walk,  had  my  first  feeling  of  healthful  tired- 
ness, which  gave  me  a  nap  of  an  hour. 

"  And  be  sure  that  none  but  kindly  words  are 
heard  from  any  of  my  family  about  the  trustees." 

To  his  Son  Francis. 

"  Clifton  Springs,  N.Y.,  October  26,  1874. 

"  Do  not  worry  over  your  standing  in  the  class, 
but  do  your  work  quietly  and  take  what  comes  with- 
out disappointment.  Be  glad  if  others  do  well,  and 
be  content  if  you  do  your  best.  My  visit  to  Geneva 
brought  back  my  own  boyhood  to  me  very  vividly. 
Did  I  ever  tell  you  of  my  college  life  there  ?  I  was 
just  at  your  age  when  I  entered  college.  My  father 
lived  a  mile  away  from  the  college.  I  had  to  board 
and  sleep  at  home.  The  consequence  was  that  I  had 
to  get  up  in  the  morning  at  half-past  five  o'clock  all 
winter,  and  at  five  in  the  summer,  and  walk  before 
breakfast  to  the  college  for  a  recitation.  Often  it 
was  so  dark  and  stormy  that  I  had  to  take  a  lantern 
to  see  the  way.     Then  back  to  breakfast ;  then  drive 


244  AUSTIN  PHELPS. 

the  cows  a  mile  to  pasture ;  then  to  college  again  for 
another  recitation ;  then  home  to  dinner ;  then  to 
college  for  a  third  recitation ;  then  to  tea  ;  then  back 
to  college,  after  driving  the  cows  home ;  then,  after 
an  evening's  study,  go  home  again  about  ten  o'clock. 
That  was  my  day's  work,  day  after  day  and  month 
after  month.  I  do  not  remember  that  I  ever  lost  a 
recitation  during  the  whole  time.  When  you  feel  as 
if  your  work  were  hard  you  must  think  of  mine.  I 
was  glad  enough  when  vacation  came,  though  I  re- 
member spending  one  vacation  sawing  and  splitting 
and  piling  up  twenty-eight  cords  of  wood  —  I  and  a 
cousin  of  mine  together. 

"  My  father  could  not  buy  me  an  alarm-clock,  so 
I  made  one  to  wake  me  up  in  the  morning  seasonably. 
I  was  sleepier  in  those  winter  mornings  than  I  have 
ever  been  since.  I  used  to  have  to  count  one  —  two 
—  three  —  and  then  jump  out  of  bed  at  the  word 
'three.'  I  do  not  speak  of  it  as  anything  to  boast 
of.  Many  boys  have  done  a  great  deal  more,  and 
many  men  have  accomplished  more  in  life.  But  I 
did  the  best  I  could,  and  I  want  you  to  see  that  your 
life  is  not  a  hard  one,  and  that  if  you  do  your  best 
all  things  will  turn  out  right  in  the  end.  I  had  a 
happy  time  of  it,  and  so  may  you  if  you  will  think 
so." 

"  Clifton  Springs,  N.Y.,  November  6,  1874. 

"  I  want  you  to  be  an  elegant  letter-writer.  It  is 
one  of  the  accomplishments  which  mark  a  gentleman. 
Another  gentlemanly  rule  in  writing  letters  is  never 
to  use  contractions.  Write  every  word  in  full.  Con- 
tractions belong  to  ignorant  or  half-educated  people. 


LETTERS.  245 

They  say  'gents  '  instead  of  '  gentlemen.'  They  write 
'  Shall  see  you  to-morrow '  instead  of  '  I  shall  see 
you  to-morrow.'  A  true  gentleman  is  supposed  never 
to  do  things  in  a  hurry,  so  he  takes  time  to  write 
out  in  full  what  he  has  to  say.  It  is  a  silent  mark  of 
respect  to  your  correspondent  to  give  him  enough  of 
your  time  and  care  to  say  things  completely,  and 
make  it  easy  for  him  to  read.  It  is  said  that  Edward 
Everett  never  used  a  contraction  in  his  life.  He 
never  signed  himself  'Your  Aff.  Friend'  or  'Your 
Obt'  Svt','  but  '  Y'our  Affectionate  Friend  '  or  '  Your 
Obedient  Servant.'  The  very  few  letters  which  I 
had  from  him  did  not  contain  a  word  which  was  not 
perfectly  formed  and  legible.  Bonaparte  once,  when 
his  army  was  defeated  and  in  full  retreat,  and  when 
he  had  to  run  to  save  his  life,  wrote  a  despatch  pro- 
posing terms  of  surrender  to  the  Duke  of  Wellington, 
and  one  of  his  aides-de-camp  proposed  that  he  should 
seal  it  with  a  wafer  because  that  could  be  done  more 
quickly.  'No,'  said  he,  'give  me  some  sealing-wax; 
nothing  should  ever  be  done  in  a  hurry.'  It  was  the 
style  of  a  gentleman  in  those  days  always  to  use 
sealing-wax.  Will  you  try  to  remember  these  hints 
about  letter-writing  ?  " 

"  The  more  refined  we  become  the  more  delicate  is 
our  sense  of  what  is  due  to  our  superiors,  and  the 
more  ready  are  we  to  pay  them  their  due." 

"  Clifton  Springs,  N.Y.,  December  5,  1874. 

"  I  think  a  great  deal  about  my  boys,  while  my 
health  is  so  infirm  and  the  future  so  doubtful.  Of 
late  two  things  have  been  much  in  my  mind,  which 


246  AUSTIN   PHELPS. 

I  should  wish  to  say  to  you  if  I  should  never  live  to 
recover  my  health.  One  of  them  is  this,  that  I  fear 
that  the  state  of  my  health  may  often  have  affected 
my  method  of  speaking  to  you.  It  is  very  hard,  in 
such  long-continued  feebleness,  to  preserve  one's 
patience,  so  as  never  to  speak  harshly  or  fretfully. 
I  know  that  I  have  been  often  unable  to  be  in  good 
spirits  with  my  boys ;  to  talk  cheerfully,  and  to 
laugh  and  jest  so  as  to  make  their  boyhood  a  happy 
one.  And  sometimes  I  may  have  spoken  hastily  and 
blamed  you  too  severely. 

"  If  you  recall  any  such  things,  you  must  try  to  for- 
get them:  and  at  all  events,  attribute  them  to  my  ill 
health,  and  not  to  any  want  of  affection  for  you.  It 
is  not  for  me  to  speak  of  my  own  virtues,  but  the 
older  children  will  tell  you  what  I  was  before  my 
health  failed.  I  will  only  say  that  I  do  not  know 
any  father  who  seems  to  me  to  love  his  children  more 
tenderly  than  I  do  mine.  You  have  been  a  very  dear 
boy  to  me  ever  since  you  were  born.  I  think  you 
have  generally  tried  to  please  me  ...  I  shall  love 
you  always  very  deeply,  in  another  world,  if  I  am 
not  spared  to  live  very  long  with  you  here.  ...  I 
pray  God  to  spare  me  if  he  sees  it  to  be  best,  for 
my  dear  son's  sake.  So  think  lovingly  of  me,  my 
dear  boy,  when  I  am  gone,  and  be  assured  that 
you  have  no  more  loving  friend,  except  your 
Saviour. 

"  The  other  thing  which  sometimes  troubles  me  is 
the  idle  life  to  which  sickness  compels  me.  I  am 
sorry  to  set  such  an  example  before  you.  You  have 
no  remembrance  of  me  as  I  was  in  my  working  days. 
Of  this  also  I  cannot  speak  as  well  as  others  can.     I 


LETTERS.  247 

will  say  but  little  more  than  this  —  that  I  have  never 
desired  an  idle  life. 

"  When  I  could  work  I  loved  to  work.  It  was  always 
a  joy  and  a  privilege  to  me ;  and  as  I  look  back  on 
my  life,  while  I  see  many  things  which  I  wish  had 
been  different,  I  do  think  that  I  lived  industriously 
as  long  as  God  gave  me  the  strength  to  do  so.  If 
my  conscience  were  as  clear  about  all  other  things  as 
about  that,  I  should  have  nothing  to  regret  in  the 
past. 

"  I  remember  very  well  when  I  was  a  young  man, 
and  was  forming  my  plans  of  life,  I  resolved  that  I 
would  not  ask  of  God  an  easy  life,  nor  the  means  of 
making  it  so.  I  did  not  pray  for  wealth,  nor  do  I 
remember  that  I  desired  it,  or  expected  or  planned 
for  it.  It  was  right  for  some  other  men  to  do  that. 
God  called  them  to  it.  But  I  thought  he  did  not  call 
me  to  it,  and  I  did  not  wish  for  it.  I  felt  entirely 
content  to  be  poor,  to  work  hard,  to  spend  all  my 
days  in  labor,  if  God  would  but  give  me  the  suc- 
cess in  my  profession  which  I  did  crave  with  all  my 
heart.  I  thought  I  had  Solomon's  example  for  this 
when  he  came  to  the  throne  and  asked  God  to  give 
him  ivisdom  above  all  things  else. 

"  In  looking  back  upon  my  life  I  do  not  regret  my 
choice.  I  am  very  glad  of  it.  I  am  thankful  that 
God  helped  me  to  choose  that  rather  than  a  life  of 
ease.  You  must  therefore  take  my  example  as  it 
was  —  not  as  it  is  now,  when  I  can  no  longer  work. 

"  One  old  writer  says  that, '  in  such  a  world  as  this, 
nobody  but  the  angels  should  be  spectators.' 

"  Will  you  remember  this  when  I  am  gone  ?  Will 
you  try  to  learn  how  your  father  lived  when  he  was 


248  AUSTIN   PHELPS. 

young  and  strong,  and  imitate  his  example  in  that  if 
in  nothing  else  ?  You  will  never  regret  it  when  age 
and  sickness  and  death  come. 

"  One  rich  young  man  I  knew  who  devoted  nearly 
his  whole  time  to  visiting  among  the  poor.  He  re- 
lieved their  wants,  visited  them  in  sickness,  prayed 
with  them,  read  the  Bible  to  them.  In  short,  he 
tried  to  do  just  what  Christ  did  when  he  was  on 
earth.  After  a  few  years  he  died  of  disease,  con- 
tracted in  one  of  his  missionary  visits.  But  he  never 
regretted  it.  He  lived  longer  than  Christ  did.  His 
was  a  noble  life.  It  was  worth  a  hundred  years  of 
such  life  as  that  in  which  men  make  it  their  business 
'  to  enjoy  life.' 

"  If  this  ever  becomes  a  practical  question  to  you, 
do  not  go  to  any  man  or  woman  to  settle  it  for  you. 
Trust  rather  your  own  conscience  and  God's  teach- 
ing. Ask  yourself,  'How  would  Christ  probably 
live,  if  he  were  in  my  place  ? '  Answer  that  question 
honestly,  and  act  upon  the  answer,  and  you  cannot 
go  far  wrong.  Will  you  remember  this  too  when  I 
am  gone  ?  It  is  among  the  last  things  I  would  say 
to  you  on  my  death-bed  if  I  could." 

"  Clifton  Springs,  N.Y.,  December  10,  1874. 

"  Here  is  another  '  sermon  '  for  you.  Reserve  it 
for  Sunday,  if  you  choose,  but  read  it  carefully  when 
you  have  time.  It  relates  to  one  of  the  things  which 
I  want  you  to  remember  as  the  years  go  by. 

"It  is  that  I  want  you  to  live,  if  possible,  an  intellect- 
ual life.  Get  the  best  education  that  money  can  buy. 
Choose  one  of  the  educated  professions  for  the  business 
of  your  life.     Be  a  man  of  books.     Live  in  the  midst 


LETTERS.  249 

of  books.  Cultivate  tastes  which  will  make  books  a 
lifelong  pleasure  to  you.  Have  a  library  and  use  it 
faithfully.  Do  not  be  drawn  aside  into  a  different 
life,  if  God  makes  it  possible  for  you  to  become  a 
learned  man,  and  to  live  by  your  learning.  I  do  not 
mean  by  this  advice  that  you  should  look  down  upon 
an  uneducated  life,  or  despise  uncultivated  people ; 
nor  that  you  should  despise  money  and  money- 
making.  It  is  very  weak  to  despise  anything  by 
which  good  may  be  done.  Men  sometimes  talk 
proudly  about  despising  money  ;  but  every  man's  life 
contradicts  that.  ...  It  takes  a  strong  character  to 
make  money  and  more  still  to  keep  it  and  to  use  it 
unselfishly. 

"  True  respectability  consists  in  doing  well  the 
work  to  which  God  has  called  us.  A  young  upstart 
once  tried  to  insult  an  eminent  lawyer  by  saying  to 
him,  '  I  remember  the  time,  sir,  when  you  blacked 
my  father's  boots.'  '  Well,'  was  the  reply,  '  I  did 
them  thoroughly,  didn't  I  ? '     That  is  the  right  spirit. 

"  You  will  not  misunderstand  me  therefore,  when 
I  advise  you  to  choose  an  intellectual  life.  What  I 
mean  is,  that  valuable  as  other  modes  of  living  may 
be,  the  intellectual  life  is  more  so ;  it  makes  more  of 
a  man,  more  of  his  mind,  more  of  his  thinking  power, 
more  of  all  there  is  in  him  which  is  immortal.  The 
power  of  such  a  life,  if  devoted  to  God's  service,  is 
much  greater  than  the  power  of  wealth.  It  is  more 
lasting,  more  elevating,  and  it  goes  deeper  in  its  means 
of  doing  good.  It  is  attended  also  with  less  temptation 
to  evil  courses.  A  thousand  men  have  been  tempted 
to  their  ruin  by  too  much  money,  where  one  has  been 
ruined  by  too  much  learning,  or  too  broad  a  culture. 


250  AUSTIN   PHELPS. 

In  the  old  Continental  Congress,  which  made  the 
Declaration  of  Independence,  there  were  two  men, 
John  Hancock  and  Thomas  Jefferson  ;  Hancock  was 
the  richest  man  in  New  England.  He  was  sent  to 
Congress  on  that  account ;  he  was  not  a  highly  edu- 
cated man;  he  could  not  make  good  speeches;  he  had 
not  much  influence  in  Congress,  except  what  his 
wealth  gave  him.  They  made  him  president  of  the 
Congress,  not  because  they  thought  him  their  ablest 
man,  but  because  he  was  a  man  of  fine  personal 
appearance,  and  because  they  wanted  to  compliment 
Massachusetts.  They  all  respected  him.  They  all 
felt  that  he  did  a  very  noble  thing  when  he  told 
General  Washington  to  bombard  Boston  if  necessary, 
though  the  great  bulk  of  his  (Hancock's)  property 
was  in  the  city  ;  yet  he  did  not  stand  among  their 
ablest  men.  Thomas  Jefferson,  on  the  other  hand, 
had  not  half  the  property  of  Hancock.  He  was 
always  in  want  of  money,  always  in  debt ;  but  he  had 
the  best  education  the  country  could  afford ;  scarcely 
a  ship  went  to  England  which  did  not  carry  an  order 
from  Jefferson  for  books.  He  had  the  best  library  in 
Virginia.  He  loved  books.  For  that  day  he  was  a 
very  learned  man.  The  consequence  was  that  he 
became  the  leading  mind  of  Virginia  before  he  was 
thirty  years  old.  I  think  he  was  president  of  the 
House  of  Burgesses  before  that  age.  In  Congress, 
too,  his  was  the  leading  spirit ;  he  did  more  than  any 
other  man  in  controlling  the  action  of  that  body,  and 
when  they  came  to  the  drafting  of  the  Declaration  of 
Independence,  and  felt  that  they  needed  the  ablest 
mind  of  them  all  to  compose  a  document  which  was 
to  be  their  defence  before  the  world,  and  to  found  a 


LETTERS.  251 

great  nation,  they  turned  unanimously  to  Thomas 
Jefferson.  From  that  day  to  this,  I  think  no  other 
mind,  not  even  Washington,  has  exerted  so  power- 
ful an  influence  on  the  politics  of  this  country  as 
that  of  Jefferson.  Yet  he,  when  a  young  man,  had 
the  opportunity  to  become  the  richest  man  in  Vir- 
ginia. If  he  had  given  himself  to  it,  he  could  have 
had  a  princely  fortune,  and  could  have  lived  a  luxu- 
rious life,  as  the  possessor  of  rich  plantations  and  a 
thousand  slaves ;  but  if  he  had  chosen  that  mode  of 
life,  you  and  I  should  never  have  heard  of  him. 
Which  do  you  think  was  the  nobler  life  of  the  two  ? 

"  Professor  Agassiz  was  once  invited  to  engage  in 
mining  speculation,  in  which  his  scientific  knowledge 
would  give  him  the  means  of  making  a  fortune  in  a 
year.  He  turned  upon  the  man  who  proposed  it  and 
said  impatiently,  'I  have  no  time  to  make  money.' 
Once  when  one  of  his  pupils  showed  a  disposition  to 
turn  his  scientific  studies  to  account  in  money-making, 
he  replied  angrily,  '  Go,  sir,  you  have  no  place  here  if 
your  mind  is  bent  on  money.'  That  was  the  spirit 
of  Agfassiz's  whole  life. 

"  So  far  as  the  main  object  was  concerned,  —  the 
sacrifice  of  his  pecuniary  interests  to  science,  —  he 
was  right.  It  might  not  have  been  right  for  some 
other  man,  but  it  was  right  for  him.  He  would 
never  have  done  his  life's  work  in  any  other  spirit. 
He  died  a  poor  man ;  but  on  both  sides  of  the  Ocean 
his  name  is  honored  for  what  he  has  done  in  the  ser- 
vice of  science. 

"  The  respect  of  the  world  for  him,  and  the  common 
sense  of  what  his  life  was  worth,  are  expressed  by  the 
fact  that  our  rich  men  are  about  to  found  an  institu- 


252  AUSTIN   PHELPS. 

tion  in  honor  of  him,  which  is  to  cost  two  hundred 
and  fifty  thousand  dollars.  He  lived  a  noble  life  ; 
they  are  doing  a  noble  thing  in  thus  honoring  him ; 
but  which  would  you  rather  be  —  Agassiz  himself,  or 
the  giver  of  a  fortune  to  commemorate  his  worth  ? 

"  Do  you  understand,  then,  exactly  why  I  advise  you 
to  choose  the  intellectual  life  in  preference  to  any 
other  ?  It  is  simply  because  that  is  the  best  life,  the 
noblest  in  itself,  the  most  useful  to  the  world,  the 
most  serviceable  to  God's  cause,  and  the  most  help- 
ful to  those  things  which  a  man  can  carry  with  him 
into  Eternity. 

"  This  is  enough  for  the  present ;  I  have  some  other 
things  to  say  in  another  '  sermon.' 

"  Clifton  Springs,  N.Y.,  December  23,  1874. 

"  I  have  several  subjects  on  which  I  wish  to  write 
to  you.  If  my  letters  do  not  interest  you,  will  you 
keep  them?  I  think  perhaps  they  will  when  you  are 
older,  yet  then  I  may  not  be  able  to  give  you  advice. 

"  In  this  letter  I  wish  to  add  to  one  of  my  recent 
ones  (on  the  intellectual  life).  Gifts  of  mind  are  noth- 
ing to  be  proud  of.  They  are  gifts  of  God,  which 
you  are  responsible  for  using  in  the  best  way,  as  you 
would  be  for  using  a  fortune  wisely,  if  you  had  that. 
Your  thoughtful  mind  may  be  all  the  fortune  you 
will  ever  have.  It  is  worth  more  than  a  fortune,  if 
you  use  it  well.  It  is  right  for  you  to  see  just  what 
God  has  given  you,  and  then  put  it  to  the  best  uses. 
It  would  be  wrong  to  do  otherwise. 

"  Does  this  seem  like  advising  you  to  be  ambitious  ? 
Well,  in  one  sense  of  the  word,  you  ought  to  be  am- 
bitious.    You  ought  to  be  aspiring.     I  once  heard  a 


LETTERS.  253 

sermon  on  the  duty  of  '  Willingness  to  be  Little.' 
That  is  the  duty  of  some  men.  But  it  is  a  dangerous 
duty.  It  is  safer  to  set  our  aim  high  and  aspire  to  be 
all  that  God  made  us  capable  of  being.  It  is  safer 
to  aspire  above  our  abilities  than  to  aim  beloAv  them. 
One  is  a  mistake  of  judgment ;  the  other  is  indolence. 
I  think  that  young  men  more  frequently  mistake 
through  self-distrust  and  willingness  to  live  an  easy 
life,  than  through  excessive  ambition.  So  thought 
Dr.  Arnold,  a  celebrated  teacher  of  boys  in  England. 
I  would  say,  therefore,  to  all  boys,  'Aim  high  in 
everything  you  undertake ;  whatever  else  you  fail  in, 
put  mind  above  body,  and  make  the  most  of  it.' 

"  Another  special  reason  why  I  would  have  you 
choose  an  intellectual  life  is  that  the  present  current 
of  feeling  about  it  among  young  men  is  in  the  wrong 
direction.  Young  men  now  have  a  morbid  craving 
to  be  rich.  They  are  dazzled  by  fine  houses,  gaudy 
furniture,  costly  pictures,  luxurious  living ;  what  the 
Bible  calls  '  the  lust  of  the  flesh,  and  the  lust  of  the 
eye,  and  the  pride  of  life,'  are  tempting  many  away 
from  better  things. 

"  As  a  consequence,  many  who  are  able  to  become 
ministers,  doctors,  lawyers,  journalists,  professors, 
teachers,  authors,  are  becoming  merchants,  bankers, 
brokers,  speculators,  for  no  reason  except  that  they 
can  get  rich  more  easily  in  these  latter  ways.  It  is 
all  right  to  do  this,  if  God  calls  one  to  it ;  but  if  not, 
it  is  all  wrong. 

"...  It  is  never  right  to  do  a  good  thing  if  you 
can  do  the  better  thing.  You  will  be  tempted,  as  all 
young  men  are,  when  you  grow  older,  to  choose 
riches  above  all  things  else.     My  charge  to  you  is: 


254  AUSTIN  THELPS. 

don't  do  that  thing,  unless  it  is  clear  that  God  calls 
you  to  it.  The  intellectual  life  is  better,  more  use- 
ful, more  enjoyable,  nobler  in  every  way.  Multi- 
tudes of  young  men  are  suffering  a  lifelong  loss  by 
not  choosing  it. 

"  Two  or  three  examples  will  show  you  what  I 
mean.  A  young  man,  the  son  of  a  New  York  mer- 
chant, was  once  entreated  by  his  father  to  join  him 
in  his  business.  The  firm  was  rich.  The  father 
offered  him  a  fortune  outright  if  he  would  enter  it 
as  a  partner.  The  young  man  wanted  to  go  to  col- 
lege. The  father  protested  against  it.  He  wanted 
to  be  a  minister.  The  father  opposed  that  more 
strongly  yet.  The  young  man  persisted.  That 
father  lived  and  died  a  rich  man.  Perhaps  he  was  a 
good  man  and  died  peacefully.  But  suppose  that  he 
did,  what  was  his  life's  work  worth  compared  with 

that  of  his  son  ?     The  son  is  Dr. ,  late  president 

of  College.     He  has  preached  the  Gospel  for 

thirty  years.  He  has  aided  in  educating  more  than 
ten  thousand  students,  many  of  them  the  ablest  men 
of  the  country.  He  has  written  books  which  are  doing 
vast  good,  and  will  do  it  when  he  is  dead.  He  has 
become  the  chief  authority  in  political  economy  among 
our  statesmen.  He  has  led  the  scholarship  of  the 
country  for  a  quarter  of  a  century,  and  is  revered  all 
through  the  land  as  one  of  the  most  pure  and  modest 
Christians  that  ever  lived.  Such  a  life  is  worth  a 
hundred  like  his  father's.  Which  is  the  best  record 
to  carry  into  Eternity  ? 

"  Another  young  man  began  life  with  me.  He 
was  poor  and  an  orphan.  He  had  a  wealthy  uncle  in 
Boston,  who  promised  to  make  him  his  heir  if   he 


LETTERS.  255 

would  go  into  business  there.  He  wanted  to  get  an 
education.  He  persisted,  and  was  educated  in  part 
by  charity.  He  became  a  minister,  and  soon  after 
was  threatened  with  blindness,  and  had  no  property 
to  live  on.  '  What  is  your  college  learning  good  for 
now?'  asked  the  uncle.  The  minister  trusted  to 
God  for  help.     His  eyes  were  restored.     He  became 

pastor  of  one  of  the  largest  churches  in .     He 

is   now   Rev.    Dr.   ,    of    the    Home    Missionary 

Society  in  New  York.  His  work  has  been  blessed 
with  revivals  of  religion.  He  has  been  the  means  of 
saving  many  souls.  Missionary  churches  are  founded 
every  year  through  his  labors  in  part.  Now  which 
was  the  wise  man,  the  uncle  or  the  boy  ?  Which  life 
was  worth  the  most? 

"  A  man  in  the  State  of  New  York,  within  sight 

of  ,  had  two  sons.     He  gave  to  each  of   them 

three  thousand  dollars,  and  told  them  that  was  all  he 
could  spare  them,  but  that  with  that  they  might  do 
as  they  pleased.  The  older  one  went  into  the  lum- 
bering business,  was  very  prosperous,  and  became  a 
rich  man.  The  other  spent  his  money  in  going  to 
college,  became  a  minister,  settled  first  in  the  little 
village  of  ,  then  was  professor  in  Col- 
lege, then  professor  at  ,  then  pastor  of  one  of 

the  largest  churches  in  New  York,  and  is  now  Prof. 

,  of   the  Seminary,    and   is   sending 

into  the  ministry  thirty  young  men  every  year,  and 
writing  books  which  are  read  on  both  sides  of  the 
Atlantic.  The  last  time  I  saw  the  older  brother  he 
had  lost  his  property,  had  failed  in  business,  was  out 
of  employment,  and  was  lamenting  that  he  had  not 
spent  his  three  thousand  dollars  on  a  college  educa- 


256  AUSTIN   PHELPS. 

tion,  as  his  younger  brother  did.  Which  of  these  was 
the  best  life  ?  Which  had  accumulated  the  most  to 
carry  into  eternity  ?  Both  those  boys  were  qualified 
for  an  intellectual  life.  They  were  the  sons  of  a 
clergyman.  They  ought  to  have  appreciated  learn- 
ing. One  chose  it,  the  other  gave  it  up  for  wealth 
and  lost  both.  Now  I  do  not  expect  rich  uncles  or 
fathers  to  offer  you  a  fortune.  But  you  will  be 
tempted  in  other  ways  to  seek  wealth  as  the  chief 
good  of  this  world.  I  do  not  expect  to  be  here  to 
counsel  you  then.  But  remember  what  I  advise  you 
now.  Choose  the  education  and  the  intellectual  life 
if  God  gives  you  health  for  it.  Be  willing  to  be 
poor  in  pocket  if  you  can  be  rich  in  intellectual 
culture.  Accumulated  property  is  not  at  all  neces- 
sary to  a  healthy  man's  happiness.  You  can  be  per- 
fectly happy  living  on  a  salary  from  year  to  year. 

"  I  have  tried  both  ways,  and  thankful  as  I  am  to 
God  who  has  given  me  the  means  of  living  now  that 
I  can  no  longer  earn  it,  yet  all  the  money  you  could 
count  would  not  tempt  me  to  give  up  the  joy  of  my 
educated  manhood.  If  the  choice  were  forced  upon 
me  to-day,  between  educated  poverty  and  uneducated 
wealth,  I  would  say,  without  thinking  a  second  time, 
give  me  the  poverty.  Sick  as  I  am,  I  would  take  my 
chances  of  the  poor-house,  without  a  dollar  to  carry 
me  there,  sooner  than  give  up  the  memory  of  the  life 
I  have  lived." 

"  Clifton  Springs,  N.Y.,  December  3,  1875. 

"  I  do  not  like  to  delay  longer  a  letter  expressing 
to  you  some  of  the  very  many  thoughts  I  have  about 
your  religious  character.    You  know  how  much  I  prize 


LETTERS.  257 

this,  above  all  other  gifts  for  you.  No  worldly  for- 
tune, no  eminence  among  men,  no  amount  of  learn- 
ing or  of  mental  power  bear  any  comparison,  in  my 
view,  with  the  possession  of  a  humble  Christian  heart. 
I  would  rather  see  you  a  poor  man,  an  unhonored  man, 
an  ignorant  man,  with  the  love  of  Christ  in  your  heart, 
than  to  see  you  in  the  Senate  of  the  United  States 
or  on  the  Bench  of  the  Supreme  Court,  or  possessor 
of  Mr.  A.  T.  Stewart's  fortune  without  that  love.  It 
has  become  one  of  my  habitual  prayers  that  God  will 
withhold  from  my  children  worldly  rank  or  fortune, 
if  he  sees  that  to  be  necessary  to  their  salvation.  I 
have  never  prayed  for  riches,  either  for  myself  or  my 
children.  I  dare  not  do  it  in  view  of  what  the  Bible 
says  of  the  temptations  and  dangers  of  wealth.  The 
prayer  of  the  Psalmist,  '  Give  me  neither  poverty  nor 
riches,'  seems  to  me  the  true  and  safe  one.  Then,  if 
God  sends  riches,  they  are  to  be  accepted  like  any  other 
responsibility,  and  any  other  temptation.  In  all  prob- 
ability, you  will  be  a  happier  man  without  them. 
But  whether  you  have  them  or  not  is  a  minor  matter, 
and  on  this  subject  I  want  you  especially  to  remem- 
ber two  things,  —  will  you  try  to  do  so  ? 

"  One  is,  that  you  will  find,  as  you  grow  older, 
two  sorts  of  Christians,  between  whom  you  will  have 
to  choose  which  you  will  be,  and  on  the  choice  you 
make  will  depend  your  joy  in  religion,  your  useful- 
ness among  men,  and  your  rank  in  Heaven. 

"  One  class  of  Christians  are  contented  with  re- 
ligion enough  to  keep  their  conscience  from  unrest, 
with  not  enough  to  make  them  very  devoted  or  whole- 
hearted in  it.  They  try  to  unite  a  hope  of  Heaven 
with  as  much  and  as  many  of  this  world's  pleasures 


258  AUSTIN  PHELPS. 

as  they  dare  to  indulge  in.  Their  religion  seems  to  be 
an  appendage  rather  than  the  business  of  their  lives. 
They  are  not  very  fond  of  prayer,  not  very  fond  of 
the  society  of  Christian  people,  not  much  given  to 
self-denial.  You  might  be  in  their  society  a  long 
time,  and  not  discover  that  they  profess  to  be  Chris- 
tians. They  do  not  make  the  impression  on  the  world 
that  they  are  Christians.  We  hope  many  of  them 
are  such,  but  men  of  the  world  do  not  see  that  there 
is  much  difference  between  such  Christians  and  them- 
selves. The  world  does  not  see  but  that  such  Chris- 
tians are  as  fond  of  this  world's  pleasures  as  other  men. 
They  seem  to  be  just  as  eager  for  wealth,  for  honor, 
for  fame,  for  good  comfortable  living,  as  men  of  the 
world  are ;  and  what  they  gain  by  their  religion,  it 
is  hard  for  the  world  to  see.  Such  Christians  ex- 
cite a  great  deal  of  unkind  criticism  against  all  religion 
and  religious  people.  They  are  not  very  useful,  and 
cannot  be.  The  good  they  try  to  do  is  balanced  by 
the  evil  of  their  own  example.  The  world  feels  — 
and  it  is  right  —  that  that  is  not  Christ's  way.  Christ 
did  not  live  so,  and  he  would  not  if  he  were  to  come 
to  this  world  now. 

"  The  other  class  of  Christians  consist  of  those  who 
make  a  business  of  pleasing  God  in  everything.  Re- 
ligion is  no  appendage  to  their  life ;  it  is  their  life. 
They  are  whole-souled  in  it.  All  that  they  do,  they 
try  to  do  religiously.  Be  they  merchants,  lawyers, 
doctors,  they  try  to  make  their  business  serve  God 
as  much  as  if  they  were  ministers.  They  love  prayer 
and  Christian  people.  The  more  religious  people  are, 
the  better  such  Christians  like  them. 

"  They  are  not  afraid  of  self-denial,  nor  do  they  care 


LETTERS.  259 

much  for  the  pleasures  of  the  world  in  comparison 
with  their  enjoyment  of  God's  service.  If  they  are 
rich,  they  use  their  property  for  God,  —  not  mainly 
for  their  own  pleasure.  If  they  are  poor,  they  are 
contented  and  happy,  and  in  their  poverty  often  shame 
their  superiors  by  self-denial.  There  is  a  difference 
between  such  Christians  and  the  world ;  and  the 
world  feels  it.  They  live  in  good  measure  like 
Christ,  and  the  world  sees  that  they  do.  Say  what 
they  may,  worldly  men  knoiv  that  such  Christians 
have  something  which  they  have  not. 

"  Now  between  these  two  classes  of  Christians  you 
will  have  to  choose  which  you  will  be.  You  can  be 
either.  The  temptations  of  life  will  be  all  one  way. 
The  promptings  of  conscience  all  the  other  way.  If 
there  is  a  denomination  of  Christians  which  is  more 
devoted  than  the  rest,  see  to  it  that  you  belong  to 
that.  If  there  is  a  group  of  Christians  which  seem 
to  you  more  Christ-like  than  others,  seek  their  society ; 
be  one  of  them,  if  you  can ;  make  the  religious  ques- 
tion the  chief  one  in  deciding  all  social  matters.  Seek 
your  personal  friends  among  the  poor,  if  you  find  the 
best  Christians  there.  Do  not  allow  social  rank  or 
worldly  popularity  to  weigh  with  you  a  moment  against 
deep  and  true  godliness  of  character.  God  will  ex- 
alt you  if  you  exalt  him. 

"  In  this,  as  in  other  things,  be  whole-hearted.  Why 
is  it  any  more  respectable  to  be  half-hearted  in  reli- 
gion than  in  other  things  ?  It  is  not  half  as  much  so. 
Don't  try  to  be  a  Christian  at  all  unless  you  mean  to 
give  your  whole  soul  to  God. 

"  Probably  the  first  time  when  you  will  be  severely 
tempted  about  the  matter  of  which  I  have  now  written 


260  AUSTIN  PHELPS. 

will  be  in  college,  if  you  go  there.  Let  your  few  inti- 
mates be  Christians  above  all  things  else.  Trust  to 
your  scholarship  for  respectable  rank  among  the  boys. 
They  will  all  respect  that.  When  I  was  in  college 
in  Philadelphia,  I  was  the  poorest  in  my  class  but 
one.  I  dressed  poorly.  Everybody  knew  that  my 
father  was  a  poor  clergyman.  But  I  had  no  diffi- 
culty in  associating  with  whom  I  pleased.  ...  I  did 
nothing  to  seek  it,  except  to  get  my  lessons  well.  Re- 
member that  in  college  you  can  always  trust  to  schol- 
arship to  take  care  of  your  social  position. 

"  You  will  have  no  difficulty,  in  any  college  to 
which  you  will  be  likely  to  go,  in  finding  gentlemen 
among  the  religious  boys.  This  is  desirable.  Piety 
and  gentlemanly  culture  are  necessary  to  the  intimate 
friends  of  a  scholar.  Beyond  this,  don't  you  care  a 
farthing  whether  they  are  rich  or  poor,  from  one 
family  or  another." 

To  One  of  his  Children. 

A   NIGHT   ON   DECK. 

"  Arctic,  Tuesday  Evening,  May  9,  1854. 

"  I  went  up  from  my  stateroom  one  evening  about 
eight  o'clock,  and  found  a  crowd  of  sailors  and  pas- 
sengers around  the  smoke-pipe,  which  you  know  is 
the  large  iron  chimney  of  the  boat.  It  was  raining 
and  chilly,  and  that  was  the  only  warm  spot.  I 
edged  my  way  in  among  them,  put  on  one  surtout, 
and  rolled  up  the  other  for  a  pillow,  and  lay  down  flat 
on  the  deck.  It  was  the  only  position  and  the  only 
place  in  which  I  could  be  comfortable.  The  heat 
from  the  pipe  kept  me  warm,  and  the  rain  I  did  not 


LETTERS.  261 

mind,  and  the  air  refreshed  me.  It  was  unusual  for 
a  gentleman  to  camp  out  in  a  rainy  night,  and  the 
fellows  did  not  know  what  to  make  of  it.  I  suspect 
they  thought  at  first  I  might  have  been  drinking  too 
much  brandy.  They  made  all  sorts  of  talk  about  me  ; 
some  laughed  and  joked  about  me,  and  some  jab- 
bered in  French.  '  Hilloa,'  said  a  newcomer,  who 
almost  stumbled  over  me,  '  have  you  got  a  dead  man 
here  ? '  '  Pretty  near  it,'  said  another.  '  He  wouldn't 
mind  being  pitched  overboard,  I  reckon,'  said  a 
third.  '  Well,'  added  another,  '  that  man  gets  his 
money's  worth  for  crossing  the  Atlantic'  So  they 
talked  away,  but  I  did  not  care  if  they  would  let 
me  alone  and  would  not  step  on  me.  At  length  one 
rough  fellow  with  a  cigar  in  his  mouth,  but  with  a 
pleasant,  beaming  black  eye,  bent  down  over  me,  and 
said  as  he  puffed  a  whiff  of  tobacco-smoke  into  my 
face,  'Sick,  eh!'  'Yes.'  'First  voyage?'  'Yes.' 
He  looked  near  to  my  face.  '  Well,'  said  he,  '  you 
are  the  sickest  fellow  I  ever  did  see.  Did  you 
want  to  lie  here  ? '  '  How  long  can  I  stay  here  ? '  I 
asked.  '  As  long  as  you  like,'  he  replied.  '  Then 
I'll  stay  till  morning.'  '  Well,  don't  you  want 
something  to  lie  on  ? '  I  told  him  yes ;  but  I  had 
asked  one  of  the  men  to  get  a  piece  of  sail-cloth  and 
throw  over  me,  and  he  did  not  get  it ;  perhaps  he  did 
not  hear  me.  But  this  man  sung  out,  'Boys,  here, 
bring  along  that  settee  yonder.'  '  Aye,  sir  ! '  Soon 
two  boys  brought  a  settee,  and  the  mate  said,  '  Put 
it  here ;  twist  it  round,  close  up,  so  as  to  bring  it 
near  the  smoke-pipe.  Now  would  ye  like  my  old 
coat?'  he  asked,  turning  to  me.  'Don't  you  want 
it  yourself  this  stormy  night?  '     'No,'  he  answered; 


262  AUSTIN   PHELPS. 

4  I've  got  two  or  three  of  'em,  thank  God.'  So  he 
brought  me  a  thick,  heavy  coat  for  a  mattress,  an- 
other oil-cloth  coat  to  throw  over  me,  sent  down  to 
the  steward  for  a  howl  of  gruel  for  me,  and  then  sat 
down  on  a  stool  by  my  side  to  take  his  turn  in  watch- 
ing that  part  of  the  vessel  for  the  night.  I  lay  there 
till  morning.  Every  hour  or  two  the  mate  sung  out, 
'  Heave  the  log,  Tom ' ;  and  Tom  heaved  the  log  and 
said,  '  Aye,  aye,  sir ! '   '  All  right ! ' 

"  At  last  the  morning  came,  and  I  came  down  again 
to  my  berth.  It  was  one  of  the  most  comfortable 
nights  I  have  had  on  board  the  ship. 

"They  (the  spiritualistic  phenomena)  do  attend 
and  follow  certain  conditions  of  disease.  Thus 
much  I  think  is  pretty  sure.  I  would,  therefore,  do 
nothing  to  enlarge  that  crevice  in  the  nervous  make- 
up through  which  the   thing  may   find  its  way.     I 

have   never  been  convinced  that  in 's  case,  he 

did  not  aggravate  the  evil  by  meddling  with  it.  I 
would,  at  any  rate,  wait  till  there  is  nothing  else 
to  do." 

"  Andover,  Mass.,  Saturday  Morning,  September  21. 

"  At  ten  o'clock  last  night  I  had  one  of  the  mo- 
ments of  consciousness  of  interchange  of  thought 
with  you,  which  the  mesmerists  tell  of.  It  was  so 
vivid  that  I  laughed  outright,  as  if  I  could  see  you 
through  a  long  tube.  I  felt  much  as  I  did  when  I 
was  a  boy,  and  first  learned  that  by  putting  my  ear 
to  one  end  of  a  long  piece  of  timber,  I  could  hear 
another  boy  scratching  the  other  end.  I  am  as  sure 
that  I  saw  and  spoke  to  you,  as  —  well,  as  I  am  that 


LETTERS.  263 

the  mesmerists  see  through  millstones  —  which,  to 
be  sure,  is  not  saying  much.  But  the  illusion  was 
very  perfect  and  very  pleasant. 

"  Remember  me  to  your  sick  minister,  if  he  cares 
to  hear  from  me.  I  do  not  know  him,  but  claim 
brotherhood  with  all  the  Yankee  parsons,  and  don't 
'  make  fun  of  them.'     I  am  one  of  them." 

"  Andover,  Mass.,  September  7,  1864. 
" is  begging  to  be  let  off  from  grammar,  and 


is  going  through  the  anathematizing  process,  which 
all  youthful  drudgers  at  our  mother  tongue  experi- 
ence. If  the  love  of  children  for  a  man  is  any  sign 
of  his  character,  next  to  being  a  dentist,  to  have 
been  Lindley  Murray,  must  be  the  summum  malum 
of  earthly  misfortunes. 

"I  have  been  reading 'Haunted  Hearts,' and  am 
agreeably  disappointed  in  it,  as  it  respects  the  ability 
with  which  it  is  written.  The  plot  is  ingenious  and 
well  sustained.  The  theology  of  it  is  another  thing, 
though  it  is  true  enough  as  she  puts  it,  and  so  is 
almost  any  error  which  is  aimed,  not  at  truth,  but  at 
a  caricature  of  it.  The  falseness  of  the  book  is  the 
old  Unitarian  inability  to  understand  what  the  truth 
is,  founded  upon  incompetence  to  meet  it  as  it  is. 
We  Orthodox  should  be  fools  if  we  taught  or  be- 
lieved what  she  opposes.  I  never  heard  of  the  man 
who  did." 

"  Andover,  July  22,  1869. 

"  To-night  it  is  like  an  evening  in  October.  I  am 
weary,  but  not  excessively  so.  I  am  feeling  the 
usual  reaction  from   the  excitement  of  anniversary 


264  AUSTIN  PHELPS. 

week  ;  the  usual  sadness  at  parting  with  my  class ; 
and  the  usual  questionings  of  what  may  be  written 
in  the  Great  Book  of  duties  undone,  motives  unsanc- 
tified,  opportunities  unimproved.  My  lecture-room 
has  a  great  many  voices,  silent  to  all  ears  but  mine. 

" has    a   new   dodge    at    his    devotions ;    he 

prayed  last  night  that  he  might  be  as  good  a  man  as 
Moses,  and  might  write  as  good  a  book  as  Deute- 
ronomy.    There's  inspiration  for  you  !  " 

"New  York  [undated]. 

"  To-day  I  called  on  an  old  classmate  whom  I 
have  not  seen  for  twenty -five  years;  and  what  do 
you  suppose  I  found  him  doing?  Selling  whiskey. 
Think  of  a  collegiate  education  to  help  a  man  in  the 
whiskey  business !  This  man  was  a  good  scholar, 
read  Greek  finely,  was  good  in  mathematics,  and  was 
a  fine  speaker,  yet  here  he  is.  He  has  never  married, 
has  accumulated  a  large  fortune,  lives  by  himself, 
spends  his  days  in  a  little  dingy  counting-room  in 
one  of  the  most  repulsive  streets  of  New  York,  sur- 
rounded with  piles  on  piles  of  whiskey  barrels.  We 
rolled  hoop  together  when  we  were  boys ;  fished, 
sailed,  flied  kites,  flirted,  went  to  Sunday-school,  to 
boys'  prayer-meeting,  to  debating  club,  to  college  to- 
gether ;  yet  how  our  paths  in  life  have  diverged ! 
He  did  not  know  me  nor  I  him,  and  I  presume  we 
have  now  met  for  the  last  time  in  this  world." 

"  Do  strive  against  the  curse  of  a  narrow  heart.  I 
think  that  of  all  narrow-souled  mortals,  a  contracted 
literary  person  is  the  narrowest.  Men  of  business, 
from  being  knocked  around  among  men,  often  get  a 


LETTERS.  265 

broader  culture  of  all  manly  traits  than  some  bookish 
men  get  from  their  libraries." 

"  Geneva,  April  18,  1865. 

"  I  suppose  you  have  been  thrilled  and  saddened 
by  the  murder  of  the  President,  as  everybody  else 
has.  It  is  a  fearful  blow  to  the  country  as  man 
judges.  But  if  the  prayers  of  God's  people  gather 
around  the  new  President,  as  they  did  around  Presi- 
dent Lincoln,  the  result  may  prove  a  blessing  on  the 
whole.  Much  as  I  have  loved  Mr.  Lincoln,  and 
trusted  to  his  good  sense  and  honesty,  I  still  cannot 
help  conjecturing  that  God  saw  he  was  too  kindly  a 
man  to  deal  with  conquered  rebels.  He  was  just  the 
man  to  lead  the  nation  through  the  educating  process 
up  to  the  abolition  of  slavery,  but  perhaps  we  need  a 
sterner  man,  and  one  who  has  suffered  more  from  the 
slave  powers,  to  punish  traitors.  Who  can  tell  ?  At 
any  rate,  I  have  settled  down  in  a  calm  utterance 
that  God  saw  that  it  was  good  to  permit  the  deed. 
A  strange  thought  has  impressed  me  too.  The 
assassination  took  place  on  the  anniversary  of  the 
Crucifixion.  Who  knows  that  there  is  not  some 
infinitely  remote  resemblance  between  the  two  events? 
May  not  the  deliverance  of  a  great  nation  have 
required  some  great  sacrifice  of  innocence  to  guilt?" 

"  Geneva,  April  19,  1865. 

"  It  is  a  good  thing  that  good  men  die  when  their 
work  is  done ;  good  for  their  own  reputation,  good 
for  their  usefulness,  and  good  for  their  generation. 
They  bungle  if  they  live  to  try  to  do  a  work  which 
somebody  else  was  created  for,  and  not  they.     Let  us 


266  AUSTIN"  PHELPS. 

watch  the  teachings  of  God  in  coming  events,  and  do 
it  prayerfully  ;  we  shall  soon  see  what  his  meaning 
is  in  these  fearful  developments.  What  rapids  we 
are  living  in  our  time  !  We  are  making  history  for 
poets  and  novelists  to  celebrate,  and  for  the  church 
of  Christ  to  bless  God  for,  I  trust,  a  thousand  years 
hence.  I  hope  all  the  good  men  and  women  of  the 
land  will  concentrate  troops  of  praying  hearts  around 
President  Johnson ;  who  knows  but  that  God's  grace 
will  make  the  right  man  of  him  if  we  ask  it?  And 
if  not,  we  can  still  pray  that  God  will  use  him.  We 
can  pray,  as  the  Boston  minister  did  of  whom  you 
have  heard  me  speak,  one  of  whose  congregation  was 
sent  with  very  important  despatches  to  Europe  and 
a  gale  sprung  up  soon  after  he  left  the  port,  '  O 
Lord,  save  thy  servant  from  the  fury  of  winds  and 
waves  if  it  be  thy  will ;  but  whatever  becomes  of 
him,  do  thou  save  the  despatches  and  speed  them  on 
their  way.' 

"  It  seems  hard-hearted,  but  it  is  only  deep-hearted 
to  be  willing  to  let  God  sacrifice  men  to  a  nation's 
life. 

"  I  have,  too,  a  feeling  of  congratulation  towards 
the  late  President,  that  he  is  so  removed  as  to  ensure 
to  him  a  home  forever  in  the  hearts  of  the  people  for 
whom  he  died.  I  think  I  will  not  write  more  about 
the  great  tragedy  now ;  it  agitates  me ;  no,  not  that, 
for  I  have  not  a  doubt  of  the  salutary  fruits  of  it ; 
but  it  excites  my  brain  because  of  its  grand  and 
awful  connections  with  God's  providence  over  this 
nation.  I  feel  as  if  the  millennium  were  a  hundred 
years  nearer  than  it  seemed  a  week  ago. 

"  My  advice  to  you  about  writing  is  not  to  write 


LETTERS.  267 

now ;  wait  till  the  feeling  of  horror  subsides,  or 
rather  gives  place  to  the  deeper  one  of  trust,  and  hope 
for  the  future.  It  is  always  better  to  write  under  the 
arch  of  the  rainbow  than  under  the  chain  lightning:. 
Poor  Mrs.  Lincoln  and  little  '  Tad  ! '  don't  let  us 
forget  them.  But  I  must  stop,  or  another  long, 
dreary  night  is  before  me.  Happy  dreams  to  you ! 
These  are  grand  historic  days  to  live  in  and  to  die 
in  too.     Gloria  in  Excelsis! 

"  Another  of  your  '  Lincoln  letters  '  from  Clifton 
this  morning.  Don't  you  get  into  a  worry  about  Mr. 
Johnson.  We  must  not  expect  everything  from  one 
man,  and  I  start  with  the  theory  that  a  rough-shod 
man  is  wanted  for  the  presidency  in  these  times. 
The  men  of  silken  sense  of  the  appropriate  are  apt  to 
have  silk  in  the  backbone. 

"  Oh !  you  do  not  know  how  heavily  sickness 
weighs  upon  me  in  such  a  time  as  this.  It  is  a  grand 
thing  to  live  through  such  a  revolution  if  one  can 
only  do  anything  for  the  right  in  it.  I  long  to  preach 
again  before  the  crisis  is  over. 

" does  not  go  back  to  the  war.     The  regiment 

refused  to  go.     All  the  officers  above refused  to 

go,  and  that  would  have  made  a  reorganization  nec- 
essary, and  so  there  was  less  inducement  for  the  men 
to  go.  Two-thirds  of  the  men  would  have  gone  if 
their  officers  had  led  them  enthusiastically.  I  do  not 
think  that  we  who  stay  at  home  ourselves  can  blame 
them,  yet  I  wish  they  had  gone.  But  it  illustrates  a 
law  of  Providence  that  select  instruments  of  man's 
choosing  are  not  in  the  long  run  the  most  reliable. 
God  doesn't  estimate  so  highly  as  we  do  the  'crack' 


268  AUSTIN   PHELPS. 

regiments,   and  '  crack  '   churches,  and  '  crack  '  ser- 
mons.    '  Not  many  mighty,  not  many  noble.' 

"  At  any  rate,  keep  nothing  from  me.  I  am  very 
dependent  on  the  feeling  that  my  children  are  my 
friends,  and  that  they  do  not  conceal  their  inner  life 
from  me.  May  God  in  His  infinite  compassion  do  for 
you  what  I  cannot ! " 

"  Monday  Morning,  June  21. 

"  Things  go  on  in  the  usual  startling  and  revolu- 
tionary way  at  home.  We  eat,  drink,  and  sleep  just 
as  if  nothing  had  happened.  Everybody  went  to  the 
Peace  Festival  last  week,  and  it  is  about  all  that 
they  talk  of  now.  The  usual  superlatives  of  the 
musical  vocabulary  are  flying  about  in  the  air.  I 
think  so  too  ;  no  doubt  of  it.  I  agree  with  General 
Grant,  who  thought  the  artillery  was  the  best  part  of 
the  music,  though  I  think  I  should  vote  for  the 
anvils,  always  excepting  Ole  Bull's  fiddle.  I  hope 
some  thoughtless  ones  will  get  some  idea  of  the  Day 
of  Judgment  from  such  crowds. 

"  It  will  not  surprise  me,  if  I  know  what  is  going 
on  here  three  hundred  years  hence,  if  I  find  that 
Shakespeare  no  longer  holds  his  throne ;  the  world 
may  have  outgrown  him.  It  will  not  be  strange 
if  we  discover  some  time  that  literature,  hitherto, 
has  been  on  the  wrong  track." 

"Andover,  Mass.,  September  22,  1869. 

"The  evils  of  such  meetings  are  all  on  the  surface. 
Underneath  the  '  gassing '  there  is  a  flow  of  Christian 
feeling  which  is  the  stronger  for  being  expressed  in 
ever  so  poor  a  way.     So  long  as  people  talk  in  relig- 


LETTERS.  269 

ious  meetings  as  well  as  they  do  in  secular  meetings, 
we  have  no  reason  to  be  ashamed  of  their  religion : 
and  they  do  that  as  a  general  rule.  As  well  try  to 
stop  prayer  because  it  isn't  always  classic,  as  to  stop 
religious  talking  for  the  same  reason.  We  have  all 
of  us  a  great  deal  more  of  childhood,  and  conceit, 
and  anything  but  ripe  sense  in  religion,  than  we 
think  for.  I  suspect  that  to  angels  we  seem  like 
great  babies,  sputtering  over  the  little  grains  of 
knowledge  we  pick  up  ;  but  the  sputtering  does  us 
good,  nevertheless." 

"Andover,  Mass.,  January  24,  1870. 

"  I  never  knew  a  worse  day.  It  was  like  living  in 
a  bath  of  dish-water.  I  had  to  take  to  reading  hymns, 
somewhat  as  disappointed  Episcopal   ladies   in   the 

novels  take  to  charity  schools.     came  home  this 

noon,  silent  and  pitiable  as  a  drowned  robin." 

"  I  must  tell  you  of  one  of  my  follies.  You  know 
my  superstition  about  direct  messages  from  the  Bible. 
I  cannot  defend  it,  yet  I  do  get  comfort  from  it.  Well, 
yesterday,  when  you  left  me  I  felt  as  if  the  bottom  of 
the  universe  had  fallen  out,  and  all  of  us  were  sink- 
ing into  the  original  chaos.  I  groaned  in  spirit. 
Half  mechanically  I  took  my  Bible  and  begged  for 
something  to  hold  me  up,  and  I  opened  to  that  very 
gem  of  the  whole  book,  Psalm  91 :  '  He  that  dwell- 
eth  in  the  secret  place,'  etc.  Is  it  all  humbug?  I  am 
weak  enough  to  be  unable  to  part  with  it,  as  I  fancy 
many  a  good  papist  clings  to  the  material  nature  of 
the  virgin.     All  goes  right  to-day,  anyhow. 

"  God  bless  you  ever  and  everywhere." 


270  AUSTIN   PHELPS. 

"I  have  again  read  'Stepping  Heavenward.'  I 
close  the  book  with  a  deeper  conviction  than  ever 
that  it  gives  the  true  secret  of  a  joyous  Christian  life, 
the  personal  love  of  Christ  and  to  Christ.  Heaven 
is  that,  if  nothing  else.  I  ought  to  have  known  it  all 
these  years.  I  get  glimpses  of  it  now.  If  the  long 
stretch  of  the  intermediate  Sahara,  of  which  we  know 
so  little,  could  be  blotted  out,  and  our  catechism  could 
prove  true,  — '  do  immediately  pass  into  glory,'  —  the 
change  would  lose  its  dreariness.  The  critical  point 
is  not  whether  resources  of  blessedness  are  there, 
but  have  we  the  tastes  which  can  enjoy  them?  And 
that  is  only  asking  in  another  form,  Do  we  love 
Christ  with  such  a  sense  of  His  personal  presence 
that  we  are  content? 

"  I  went  to  church  to-day  for  the  first  time  this  sum- 
mer. Heard  a  '  good '  sermon  without  a  scintilla  of 
original  thought  or  sign  that  it  came  from  a  mind 
that  ever  had  such  a  thought,  or  would  know  it  if  it 
had.  It  is  a  marvel  to  me  how  much  of  solid,  moni- 
tory, helpful  truth  is  afloat  in  the  common  Christian 
atmosphere.  Genius  is  not  needful  to  good  preach- 
ing." 

"Andover,  Mass.,  October  28,  1879. 

"News  from  my  father  is  very  dubious.  If  the 
end  is  near,  what  shall  I  do  ?  The  thought  oppresses 
me  with  strange  and  uncontrollable  weight.  One 
record  of  sixty  years  of  memory  carried  on  into  the 
awful  silence !  I  ask  myself,  is  it  necessary  for  a 
man  to  shrink  as  I  do  from  it  all?  And  God  gives 
me  no  answer.  The  terrors  of  fifty-five  years  ago, 
when  I  cried  with  unutterable  horror  at  the  sisfht  of 


LETTERS.  271 

my  grandfather's  corpse,  seem  just  as  real  to  me 
now  as  they  did  then.  I  don't  understand  it ;  other 
people  do  not  feel  so  ;  why  do  I  ?  " 

On  the  Death  of  his  Son. 

"Bar  Harbor,  Me.,  September  3,  1883. 

"  You  doubtless  have  thought  of  many  alleviations 
of  our  sorrow,  for  which  we  have  reason  to  be  grate- 
ful. I  have  counted  them  over  and  over,  and  almost 
every  hour  discovers  to  me  something  new.  I  want 
to  write  some  of  them  here. 

"  His  absolute  freedom  from  suffering :  what  an 
unspeakable  blessing  is  this,  and  on  the  whole  not 
a  very  common  one  !  That  he  was  not  conscious 
through  that  long  and  awful  journey  of  a  day  and 
a  half  in  an  open  canoe,  with  no  covering  from 
the  sun,  no  physician  and  no  anaesthetics.  What 
agonies  he  would  have  endured !  Blessed  be  God 
for  all  His  great  thoughtfulness !  He  remembered 
our  frame,  that  we  are  but  dust.  Then,  that  he  had 
no  time  to  suffer  mentally  on  our  account ;  no  neces- 
sity of  gasping  out  in  syllables  last  messages,  such 
dismal  ones  to  the  sufferer.  That  he  had  not  even 
the  ordinary  struggles  for  dying  breath;  he  went 
from  a  happy  recreation  to  a  more  blessed  one,  from 
which  there  is  no  return  to  drudgery  and  trial. 
Again,  that  he  has  left  behind,  on  the  whole,  an  un- 
usually happy  life.  I  asked  him  but  a  few  weeks  ago 
if  he  had  had  a  happy  life  so  far.  He  replied,  with 
great  positiveness,  '  Yes  ;  an  uncommonly  happy  one.' 

"  If  sometimes  I  ask  in  the  lowest  depths,  when 
the  waves  and  billows  roll  over  me  and  I  go  into 


272  AUSTIN   PHELPS. 

his  room  to  pray  to  God  and  to  Mm,  '  Why  was 
the  precious  young  life  taken  and  the  old  one  left?' 
I  am  able  to  answer :  '  It  is  the  Lord,  let  Him  do 
what  seemeth  to  Him  good.'  Let  come  what  may,  I 
must,  I  will,  cling  to  a  Covenant-keeping  God.  What 
else  is  left  to  cling  to,  and  what  more  do  we  need  ?  " 

"  Bar  Harbor,  Me.,  September  8,  1883. 

"  Thanks  for  your  letter  addressed  to  us  all.  It 
is  the  bravest  and  most  comforting  thing  I  have  had. 
I  will  try  to  follow  its  suggestions.  Thus  far  I  have 
been  able  to  do  so.  In  truth,  underneath  the  terrible 
'  waves  and  billows  '  of  this  storm,  there  is,  down 
deep  in  my  heart,  a  feeling  of  rest ;  a  sense  of  relief. 
You  know  how  largely  my  love  for  you  all  has  par- 
taken of  the  feeling  of  compassion.     I  feel  it  for  him. 

"...  Every  mail  brings  a  package  of  letters 
about  him.  One  thing  is  a  great  comfort  to  me. 
It  is  the  uniform  expression  of  trust  in  him  as  a 
noble  man,  of  respect  for  his  scholarly  attainments, 
and  of  expectation  of  great  things  to  come  from  him. 
Much  as  I  knew  of  all  this,  the  testimony  in  these 
respects  even  surpasses  my  knowledge.  .  .  .  And  to 
me  the  choicest  thing  of  all  is  that,  with  such  abilities 
and  such  prospects  before  him,  his  heart  was  turning 
from  them  to  the  humbler,  yet  really  nobler,  work  of 
a  Christian  pastor.  Oh,  I  do  bless  God  for  His  secret 
dealings  with  my  boy  ;  no,  not  mine,  but  Thine  !  " 

[Undated.] 

"  I  cannot  help  seeing  that  I  am  not  so  strong  as  a 
year  ago.  This  place  is  more  noisy ;  I  lose  more 
sleep,  and  my  last    May  in  Andover    was   a   more 


LETTERS.  273 

serious  let-down  than  ever  before.  But  the  next 
two  months  here  are  usually  my  recuperative  months. 
It  remains  to  be  seen  what  they  will  do  for  me ;  and 
to  be  true  to  my  recent  moral  reasonings  about  it,  I 
must  add,  what  the  Lord  will  do.  It  is  'borne  in 
upon  me,'  as  George  Fox  used  to  say,  that  the  Lord 
and  I  can  rebuke  the  causes  of  my  decline.  But  if 
I  may  but  have  a  painless  death,  I  do  not  care  now 
how  soon. 

"  I  have  no  '  exercises  '  about  the  boy,  except  that 
it  requires  but  a  thought  or  a  hearing  of  his  name  to 
picture  him  to  my  eye  in  a  window  or  doorway,  any- 
where, at  any  hour  of  night  or  day.  My  faith  does 
not  make  it  real  to  me  that  he  knows  when  or  what  we 
think  of  him.  Logically,  I  cannot  prove  it,  and  there 
is  much  to  say  against  it.  Specially,  I  doubt  whether 
he  has  any  consciousness  of  time  as  we  understand  or 
feel  it.  There  are  so  many  more  negations  and 
silences  than  affirmations  about  the  state  he  is  in, 
that  I  find  it  more  restful  to  think  of  him  as  being 
with  Christ  and  learning  how  to  enjoy  Christ ;  a 
thing  which  we  know  very  little  about  in  our  busy 
life  here." 

"  May  27,  1884. 

"I  am  slowly  picking  up,  though  it  is  a  harder 
rub  than  ever  before,  yet  I  see  through,  I  think. 
Only  you  outlive  me  if  God  wills.  .  . 

"  The  Boy  looks  out  at  me  here  through  every  door 
and  window.  .  . 

"  You  must  not  feel  anxious  for  me. 

"You  don't  know  how  ardently  I  long  for  Mrs. 
Prentiss'  sense  of  the  reality  of   Christ.     If  it  was  a 


274  AUSTIN  PHELPS. 

possible  experience  to  her,  why  not  to  us?  I  am 
sure  that  our  conquest  over  sin  and  wretchedness 
lies  there,  and  is  not  possible  without  it.  If  death 
does  not  give  us  a  new  power  to  see  and  enjoy  Christ, 
I  do  not  see  how  that  life  can  be  very  essentially 
different  from  this,  except  in  the  very  small  matter, 
relatively,  of  bodily  pain.  I  am  often  oppressed  with 
the  feeling  that  He  is  near,  within  hand  reach,  and 
that  I  lack  the  power  to  see  and  feel  Him  as  He  is.  I 
wait  for  the  hour  of  discovery ;  it  will  come  when  I 
am  able  to  know  it,  not  before." 

"  Bar  Harbor,  May  18,  1884. 

"  Safely  here.  Everything  worked  together  for 
good  to  one  who  tried  to  trust  in  God.  Our  rooms 
were  all  right ;  weather  made  for  invalids ;  sea  still 
as  glass  till  the  last  hour,  when  it  behaved  as  if  it 
wanted  to,  and  couldn't.  I  ivilled  it  through,  count- 
ing moments.  The  house  was  all  open  and  warm ; 
the  rink  still  at  half-past  ten.  I  am  very,  very  grate- 
ful. It  is  in  little  things  that  God  cares  for  us  little 
beings." 

"  Poor  Professor has  written  me  again.     He 

says,  '  It  is  to  me  one  of  the  darkest  of  Providential 
mysteries,  that  we  are  born.  I  am  sure  I  never 
wanted  to  be  born  anyway,  and  there  has  been 
scarcely  a  year  of  my  life  in  which  I  should  not  have 
been  glad  to  pass  into  entire  nonentity ;  but  I  love 
Christ  and  trust  Him  implicitly.'  What  do  you  think 
of  that  ?  I  thank  the  Lord  that  I  never  saw  an  hour, 
except  when  I  was  in  religious  despair  and  thought 
there  was  no  chance  for  me,  when  I  did  not  feel 
thankful  for  existence.     Come  what  may,  being  is  an 


LETTERS.  275 

unspeakable  gift  to  anybody  who  knows  and  loves 
Christ.  Do  you  take  Papa's  word  for  that,  and  in  the 
'sweet  fields  beyond'  remember  'I  told  you  so,'  and 
let  the  dear  Lord  have  the  good  of  our  blind  gratitude, 
if  we  can  muster  no  better  as  we  go  along." 

"  December  14. 

"I  am  very  grateful  for  your  loving  care  about  me. 
But  I  really  think  you  had  better  not  try  to  come 
again.  To  tell  the  truth,  I  am  a  little  glad  to  evade 
the  good  by.  I  never  part  with  you  without  a  sink- 
ing at  the  heart  from  the  fear  that  it  may  be  the  last 
time.  Yet  why  should  I  fear  anything  ?  God  is  so 
unspeakably  good  to  me  and  mine.  I  reproach  my- 
self if  I  feel  anything  but  love  and  trust.  You  don't 
know  how  much  I  see  now  of  Christ's  loving  presence 
all  my  life  through  !  Led  —  led  by  His  loving  hand 
from  beginning  to  end  !  I  ought  to  have  been  the 
most  quiet  and  trustful  man  alive. 

"  You  ask  how  I  am :  as  well  as  I  can  be  till  I 
get  back  to  my  '  dear  cottage.' " 

"Bar  Harbor,  Me.,  October  6,  1886. 
"  I  am  fascinated  with  Mr.  Blaine.     He  called  on 
me,  and  I  made  an  exception  to  my  rule  and  called 
on  him.     He  is  one  of  the  most  magnetic  talkers  I 
ever  met,  and  knows  everything  that  is  knowable." 

"  October  12,  1886. 
"Every  day  here  is  a  part  of  the  golden   age  to 
me." 

"I  hope  you  have  burned  that  bit  of  raving  I  sent 
you.     I  was  ashamed  of  it  long  before  it  reached  you. 


276  AUSTIN   PHELPS. 

A  man  who  has  been  walking  along  the  'silent  shore' 
so  long  as  I  have,  looking  off  upon  infinitely  great 
and  holy  things,  ought  not  to  become  so  slipshod, 
even  for  an  hour.  Do  not  think  of  me  so  when  I  am 
gone !  Oh,  it  is  so  great  a  thing  to  be  worthy  of 
existence  among  such  surroundings!  Usually  i  feel 
it,  and  not  without  great  peace." 

"Bar  Harbor,  March  31,  1887. 

"  I  felt  the  usual  tonic  of  the  air  the  first  day  I  was 
here  —  voice  improved  —  strength  increased  —  sleep 
good.  All  will  go  well  unless  the  time  for  the  end 
has  come.  If  it  has,  that  will  be  well.  I  do  not  yet 
feel  that  it  has  come ;  but  God's  will  is  my  will. 
Think  of  me  therefore  as  being  at  rest,  come  what 
may.  The  bay  seemed,  when  I  crossed  it,  as  if  He 
who  said  to  the  waves  which  swamped  Peter,  '  Peace 
be  still,'  were  there.  A  snow-storm  raged  overhead, 
not  exceeded  by  any  we  have  had  in  Andover,  yet 
the  water  was  as  still  as  in  mid-summer  ;  it  was  mar- 
vellous. A  close  carriage  waited  for  us  on  the  wharf. 
On  the  whole  journey  such  incidents  constantly  oc- 
curred. Thank  God  that  I  can  die  here,  if  die  it  is  to  be. 

"  May  God  be  always  at  home  with  you  both !  " 

"Andover,  Mass.,  December  18,  1888. 
"  You  ask  about  me.      You  know  I  don't  like  to 
talk  of  ailments.     Emerson  says  it  is  not  civilized  to 
do  so.     I  am  in  trouble,  and  am  losing  a  good  deal 
of  sleep,  that  is  all." 

"Bar  Harbor,  Me.,  May  16,  1889. 
"  I  mourn  the  loss  of  this  beautiful  spring  in  a 
sick-room.     But  everything  else  has  been  so  well  for 


LETTERS.  277 

me  that  I  am  grateful  beyond  words.  The  countless 
little  things  on  which  a  sick  man's  comfort  de- 
pends are  marvellous  tokens  of  God's  condescension. 
'  What  is  man  that  Thou  art  mindful  of  him  ?  And 
what  is  a  sick  man's  easy-chair  that  Thou  carest  for  it, 
and  for  the  pillow  on  which  he  rests  a  weary  head  ?  ' ' 

"  Bar  Harbor,  May  26,  1889. 

"The  goodness  of  God  to  me  is  something  wonder- 
ful. I  am  speechless  before  it ;  it  is  as  if  He  existed 
for  me  alone.  For  what  end  He  is  giving  me  some 
return  of  strength,  I  do  not  know.  He  will  disclose 
it  to  me. 

"...  About  the  autumn :  if  I  leave  here  I  fear 
that  I  shall  never  get  back.  It  is  very  faithless  in 
me  to  be  downcast  about  it,  after  all  that  God  has 
done  for  me." 

"Bar  Harbor,  July  20,  1S89. 

"  My  strength  improves  slowly ;  I  cannot  yet 
walk  far  without  weariness.  But  I  putter  over  the 
woodbines,  and  stroll  on  the  piazzas  ;  a  noble  object 
of  life,  isn't  it  ? 

"  One  thought  has  assumed  a  new  reality  in  my 
mind  of  late,  as  an  offshoot  of  my  useless  life.  It  is 
the  value  of  prayer  as  a  means  of  usefulness.  It  is 
fixed  in  the  everlasting  purposes  of  God  that  this 
world  is  to  be  converted  to  Jesus  Christ.  It  is  to  be 
brought  about  mainly  by  believing  prayer.  When 
a  man  can  do  nothing  else,  he  can  add  his  little  rill 
to  the  great  river  of  intercessory  prayer,  which  is 
always  rolling  up  to  the  throne  of  God.  The  river  is 
made  up  of  such  rills,  as  the  ocean  is  of  drops.  A 
praying  man  can  never  be  a  useless  man." 


278  AUSTIN   PHELPS. 

"Bar  Harbor,  August  25,  1889. 

"  It  is  very  thoughtful  in  you  to  express  your 
sympathy  with  me  on  the  approach  of  the  anniver- 
sary which  must  forever  make  this  month  of  August 
sacred  to  us. 

"  I  am  for  the  most  part  at  peace  about  him.  Yet 
there  are  times  when  I  would  give  my  life  for  an 
hour's  talk  with  him  —  to  tell  him  .  .  .  My  faith 
does  not  permit  me  to  pray  for  the  departed,  but  I 
do  often  pray  to  God  that  He  will  send  some  mes- 
senger to  my  boy,  to  tell  him  what  is  in  my  heart. 
When  Daniel  prayed,  Gabriel  went  swiftly  to  relieve 
the  burden  of  the  prophetic  anxiety.  I  love  to 
believe  in  the  eagerness  of  God,  and  of  ministering 
angels,  to  give  us  the  help  we  need.  But  every  year 
drops  a  link  in  the  shortening  chain  that  holds  me 
here,  and  soon  I  shall  see  the  boy  again. 

"  It  is  good  in  you  also  to  tell  me  of  the  pleasant 
things  which  people  say  of  me.     I  only  wish  I  could 

think  them  true.     But  I  understand 's  feelings 

when  he  said,  '  Oh,  I  am  a  fraud ;  they  haven't 
found  me  out ! '  I  do  not  mean  to  indulge  any  mock 
modesty,  but  I  am  drawing  near  to  the  world  where 
we  shall  be  seen,  and  shall  see  ourselves  as  we  are; 
where  every  other  being's  thought  of  us  shall  be 
a  reflection  of  God's  thoughts  and  not  a  reflection 
through  human  judgment.  My  anticipations  are 
very,  very  moderate.  Yet  I  do  not  think  that  God 
will  fling  my  record  here  in  my  face  when  I  see  Him 
there.  He  is  a  magnanimous  judge  of  character. 
He  sees  unconscious  graces  which  we  do  not. 

"  I  write,  not  because  I  have  anything  to  say,  but 
to  keep  up  the  habit." 


LETTERS.  279 

"June  10,  1890. 

"  As  to  my  health,  I  do  not  know  what  to  say.  I 
am  weaker  than  ever  before.  I  feel  an  intense  re- 
luctance to  return  to  Andover.  I  think  I  should 
suffer  more  there  than  here  ;  should  be  unable  to 
return ;  should  linger  on  till  August,  and  die.  But 
I  dread  to  ask  anybody  to  stay  with  me  here." 

"  September  8,  1890. 

"  My  strength  slowly  but  surely  declines.  My 
eyes  are  discouragingly  blind." 

"  September  17,  1890. 

"But  I  do  not  think  there  is  more  than  an  even 
chance  that  I  can  leave  here  at  all.     I  am  very  weak. 

"  I  would  as  soon  see  your  oculist  as  any  one  ;  but 
it  would  be  of  no  use.  Amaurosis  is  like  chipping  a 
piece  of  the  enamel  out  of  a  pearl ;  it  never  grows 
again. 

"  It  has  been  raining  day  and  night  here  for  a  week 
or  more.  Either  that,  or  my  eyes  make  it  dark  at 
two  P.M." 

"  September  20,  1890. 

"  I  think  too  that  the  near  future  is  very  doubtful 
for  me.  It  will  not  surprise  me  if  the  end  is  near. 
If  I  did  not  think  it  unmanly  to  think  much  about  it, 
I  should  say  that  I  hope  it  is  so.  But  the  love  of  life 
and  the  resentment  of  the  mind  to  dying  are  so  in- 
tense, that  I  think  there  must  be  some  other  reason 
for  them  than  the  obvious  ones.  The  wise  way  is  to 
wait  till  it  comes. 

"  God  bless  you  always  !  " 


280  AUSTIN   PHELPS. 

To  a  Friend. 

"  If  it  may  be,  I  should  be  glad  to  leave  this  world, 
if  not  in  the  light  of  a  golden  sunset,  at  least  in  the 
silver  twilight  which  shall  be  the  emblem  of  a  coming 
rest." 


ADDENDUM. 


In  June,  1891,  a  service  in  honor  of  the  memory 
of  Professor  Phelps  was  held  in  Andover  Chapel. 
The  Address  was  delivered  by  Rev.  Dr.  D.  S.  Furber. 
Rev.  Professor  W.  J.  Tucker  and  Professor  J.  W. 
Churchill  took  part  in  the  occasion. 


Of  the  books  published  by  Professor  Phelps,  the 
following  list  contains  the  most    important:  — 

The  Still  Hour. 

The  Solitude  of  Christ. 

The  Sabbath  Hymn  Book  (with  Professor  Park 

and  Dr.  Mason). 
Sabbath  Hours. 
The  New  Birth. 
The  Theory  of  Preaching. 
Men  and  Books. 

English  Style  in  Public  Discourse. 
Old  Testament  Studies. 
My  Portfolio. 
My  Study. 
My  Note-Book. 


PROFESSOR   AUSTIN    PHELPS' 

ESSAYS  AND  STUDIES. 


MY     NOTE-BOOK  :      Fragmentary    Studies    in 
Theology    and    Subjects    Adjacent    Thereto. 

i  vol.,  i2mo,  with  a  Portrait,  $1.50. 
Contents:  Fragmentary  Studies  in  Theology.  —  The  Personality 
of  a  Preacher. — The  Materials  of  Sermons. — Methods  and  Adjuncts  of 
the  Pulpit. — Conscience  and  Its  Allies. — Our  Sacred  Books. — Theistic 
and  Christian  Types  of  Religious  Life. — The  Future  of  Christianity. — 
Methodism  :  Its  Work  and  Ways. — Miscellaneous  Topics. 

A  peculiar  interest  attaches  to  these  studies  in  the  fact 
that  almost  the  last  act  of  Dr.  Phelps'  life  was  in  connection 
with  his  preparations  for  their  publication.  In  the  Preface 
to  the  volume  he  says  :  "  By  far  the  major  part  of  every 
man's  thinking  is  fragmentary.  The  best  thinking  of  some 
men  is  so.  They  are  seers  of  transient  and  disconnected 
vision.  An  educated  man  who  practices  literary  frugality 
in  preserving  the  ideas  suggested  by  his  reading,  will  find 
after  years  of  professional  service  an  accumulation  of  them, 
in  which  he  will  recognize  some  of  the  most  robust  products 

of   his  brain These  remarks  are  suggested  by 

the    origin    and    resources   of    the    present    volume.     It    is 
literally  what  its  title  indicates." 

MY    STUDY    AND    OTHER    ESSAYS.      1  vol., 

I2H10,  $1.50. 

Contents:  My  Study. — Vibratory  Progress  in  Religious  Beliefs.-  — 
Oscillations  of  Faith  in  Future  Retribution. — Retribution  in  Its  Biblical 
Atmosphere. — St.  Paul  on  Retribution. — Correctives  of  Popular  Faith  in 
Retribution. — Retribution  in  the  Light  of  Reason. — Endless  Sin  Under 


Professor  Phelps'  Books. 


the  Government  of  God. — The  Hypothesis  of  a  Second  Probation. — 
Scholastic  Theories  of  Inspiration. — The  New  England  Clergy  and  the 
Anti-Slavery  Reform. — Massachusetts  and  the  Quakers. — Does  the 
World  Move  ? — Is  the  Christian  Life  Worth  Living  ?— A  Study  of  the 
Episcopal  Church.— Prayer  as  a  State  of  Christian  Living. — Why  Do  I 
Believe  Christianity  To  Be  a  Revelation  from  God  ? 

"  Whatever  Phelps  w  ites  is  worth  reading  and  preserving.  Each  of  the  essays  of 
this  volume  bears  the  unrr  istakable  mark  of  his  thought  and  style.  Nearly  every 
paragraph  betrays  the  touch  of  a  master.  In  vigor,  in  richness  of  thought,  as  well  as 
in  neatness  and  clearness  of  style,  these  essays  are  almost  incomparable.*' 

—  The  Lutheran  Observer. 


MY     PORTFOLIO:    A    Collection    of    Essays. 

i  vol.,  121HO,  $1.50. 

■  Contents  :  A  Pastor  of  the  Last  Generation. — The  Rights  of 
Believers  in  Ancient  Creeds. — The  Biblical  Doctrine  of  Retribution. — 
The  Puritan  Theory  of  Amusements. — The  Christian  Theory  of  Amuse- 
ments — Is  Card-Playing  a  Christian  Amusement  ? — The  Question  of 
Sunday  Cars. — Woman-Suffrage  as  Judged  by  the  Working  of  Negro- 
Suffrage. — Reform  in  the  Political  Status  of  Women. — The  Length  of 
Sermons. — The  Calvinistic  Theory  of  Preaching. — The  Theology  of  "The 
Marble  Faun." — The  Debt  of  the  Nation  to  New  England. — Ought  the 
Pulpit  to  Ignore  Spiritualism  ? — How  Shall  the  Pulpit  Treat  Spiritual- 
ism ? — Foreign  and  Home  Missions  as  Seen  by  Candidates  for  the 
Ministry. — Foreign  Missions,  Their  Range  of  Appeal  for  Missionaries 
Limited. — Congregationalists  and  Presbyterians  :  A  Plea  for  Union. — 
Methods  of  Union. — The  Preaching  of  Albert  Barnes. — A  Vacation  with 
Dr.  Bushnell. — Prayer  Viewed  in  the  Light  of  the  Christian  Conscious- 
ness.— Intercessory  Prayer. — Hints  Auxiliary  to  Faith  in  Prayer. — The 
Vision  of  Christ. — The  Cross  in  the  Door. — The  Premature  Closing  of  a 
Life's  Work. — What  Do  We  Know  of  the  Heavenly  Life  ? 

"  To  say  that  sound  wisdom,  broad  and  exact  learning,  profound  spirituality  and 
practical  adaptation  to  current  needs  are  all  blended  in  these  essays,  and  are  rendered 
the  more  impressive  by  a  literary  style  of  such  purity  and  force  as  seldom  are  illustrated 
by  any  one  author,  is  to  say  only  what  is  familiar  already  to  everybody  who  has  read 
anything  from  Prof.  Phelps'  pen.  Such  a  volume  is  a  substantial  addition  to  that  lit 
erature  which,  by  broadening  and  strengthening  the  true  foundation  of  belief  and 
character,  is  'preparing  the  way  of  the  Lord'  upon  earth. "■ — Congregationalist. 


Professor  Phelps'  Books. 


MEN   AND    BOOKS  :  or    Studies  in  Homiletics 

Lectures  introductory  to  "  The  Theory  of  Preach 

inc.."      One  vol.,  crown,  8vo,  $2.00. 

Professor  Phelps'  second  volume  of  lectures  is  more  popular  ant1 
general  in  its  application  than  "The  Theory  of  Preaching."  It  is  de 
voted  to  a  discussion  of  the  sources  of  culture  and  power  in  the  profes- 
sion of  the  pulpit,  its  power  to  absorb  and  appropriate  to  its  own  uses 
the  world  of  real  life  in  the  present,  and  the  world  of  the  past,  as  it 
lives  in  books. 

"It  is  a  book  obviously  free  from  all  padding.  It  is  a  live  book,  animated  as  well 
as  sound  and  instructive,  in  which  conventionalities  are  brushed  aside,  and  the  author 
goes  straight  to  the  marrow  of  the  subject.  No  minister  can  read  it  without  being 
waked  up  to  a  higher  conception  of  the  possibilities  of  his  calling." 

— Professor  George  P.  Fishct . 

"It  is  one  of  the  most  helpful  books  in  the  interest  of  self-culture  that  has  ever 
been  written.  While  specially  intended  for  young  clergymen,  it  is  almost  equally 
well  adapted  for  students  in  all  the  liberal  professions."— Standard  of  the  Cross. 

"  We  are  sure  that  no  minister  or  candidate  for  the  ministry  can  read  it  withou. 
profit.  It  is  a  tonic  for  one's  mind  to  read  a  book  so  laden  with  thought  and  sugges- 
tion, and  written  in  a  style  so  fresh,  strong  and  bracing." — Boston  Watchman. 

ENGLISH  STYLE  IN  PUBLIC  DISCOURSE. 

With  Special    Relation    to   the    Usages  of   the  Pulpit. 

12010,  $2.00. 

English  Style  is  broad  and  comprehensive,  and  is  particularly  fasci 
nating  from  its  stores  of  happy  illustrations  and  its  frequent  discussion.-; 
of  matters  that  everyone  is  interested  in,  but  which  few  are  competen, 
to  decide  for  themselves.  By  far  the  greater  part  of  the  volume  relate.: 
to  English  style  in  its  widest  acceptation,  and  the  entire  work  is  a  mosl 
valuable  contribution  to  the  subject. 

"  It  would  be  difficult  to  match  this  book  for  practical  value  and  literary  merit  in 
the  English  language." — The  Evangelist. 

"This  volume  may  be  read,  and  not  only  read,  but  studied,  with  much  profit  by 
everyone  who  has  occasion  to  speak  in  public  or  to  write  for  the  public.  .  .  .  Wt 
have  here  a  treatise  on  pulpit  style  broad  enough  to  be  that  and  something  more — a 
satisfactory  treatise  on  all  English  style.  It  will  be  a  great  help  to  any  who  arc 
striving  to  learn  how  to  write  and  speak  their  mother-tongue  with  precision,  force  anu 
grace." — The  Exa7niner. 


Professor  Phelps    Books. 


THE  THEORY  OF  PREACHING:  Lectures 
on  Homiletics.  By  Professor  Austin  Phelps,  D.D. 
One  volume,  8vo,  600  pages,  $2.50. 

This  work  is  the  growth  of  more  than  thirty  years'  practical  ex- 
perience in  teaching,  reinforced  by  suggestions  arising  from  inquiries  of 
students,  which  feature  is  especially  to  be  noted  as  giving  an  intensely 
practical  and  living  character  to  the  discussion.  It  is  probably  the  most 
thorough  and  masterly  treatment  of  the  preacher's  art  that  exists,  cer- 
tainly as  adapted  for  the  American  pulpit  it  is  unequalled.  While  pri- 
marily designed  for  professional  readers,  it  will  be  found  to  contain 
much  that  will  be  of  interest  to  thoughtful  laymen.  The  writings  of  a 
master  of  style  and  of  broad  and  catholic  mind  are  always  fascinating  ;  in 
the  present  case  the  wealth  of  appropriate  and  pointed  illustration  ren- 
ders this  doubly  the  case. 


CRITICAL    NOTICES. 

"  In  the  range  of  Protestant  homiletical  literature,  we  venture  to  affirm  that  its 
equal  cannot  be  found  for  a  conscientious,  scholarly,  and  exhaustive  treatment  of  the 
theory  and  practice  of  preaching.  .  .  .  To  the  treatment  of  his  subject  Dr. 
Phelps  brings  such  qualifications  as  very  few  men  now  living  possess.  His  is  one  of 
those  delicate  and  sensitive  natures  which  are  instinctively  critical,  and  yet  full  of 
what  Matthew  Arnold  happily  calls  sweet  reasonableness.  .  .  .  To  this  character- 
istic graciousness  of  nature  Dr.  Phelps  adds  a  style  which  is  preeminently  adapted  to 
his  special  work.     It  is  nervous,  epigrammatic,  and  racy." 

—  The  Examiner  and  Chronicle. 

"It  is  a  wise,  spirited,  practical  and  devout  treatise  upon  a  topic  of  the  utmost 
consequence  to  pastors  and  people  alike,  and  to  the  salvation  of  mankind.  It  is 
elaborate,  but  not  redundant,  rich  in  the  fruits  of  experience,  yet  thoroughly  timely 
and  current,  ard  it  easily  takes  the  very  first  rank  among  volumes  of  its  class." 

—  The  Congregationalist. 

"  The  volume  is  to  be  commended  to  young  men  as  a  superb  example  of  the  art  in 
which  it  aims  to  instruct  them." — The  Independent. 

"  The  reading  of  it  is  a  mental  tonic.  The  preacher  cannot  but  feel  often  his  heart 
burning  within  him  under  its  influence.  We  could  wish  it  might  be  in  the  hands  of 
every  theological  student  and  of  every  pastor." — The  Watchman. 


*#*  For  sale    by  all  booksellers,  or  sent,  post-paid,  upon  receipt  of 
fit  ice,  by 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS,  Publishers, 
743  and  745  Broadway,  New  York. 


c^UOtyf  * 


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